


blue sky ceiling

by mortalatte



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (hint of a) Panic Attack, A dash of Oikawa siblings and Iwaoi friendship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Oihina and juuust a bit of (kinda but not really) High School Oihina, Getting Together, Implied Past Iwaoi, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Post-Time Skip, They are married, Time Travel, Weddings, or: Oihina across the years, post-retirement, take a shot every time tooru says 'husband' during their wedding, technically it's Time Slip, they got together much later in life but the when's not What Matters: the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27779041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalatte/pseuds/mortalatte
Summary: Tooru — 36 years old, happily married — woke up 18 and back in 2012.From there, he tumbled down memory lane, though it wasn’t so much as he expected it to be.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 57
Kudos: 320





	1. a slip and a plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was having the worst writer’s block but then I woke up with this plot bunny; it grabbed me by the neck and refused to let go. I'm trying a different writing style as the plot kind of demands me to, and I'm not sure if it works at all, but I'd be happy if you can still enjoy it ;-;
> 
> This has a non-linear narrative so u might wanna pay attention to the years written above some sections!
> 
> There's translation for the Spanish convo at the end notes but it should be understandable with context cues

When Tooru and Shouyou finally, _finally,_ moved in together, they had a lot of disagreements over furniture placements and color configurations. That is, if you could really call Tooru fussing over everything and Shouyou rolling his eyes— _no, Shouyou, babe, I swear to god we’re gonna build a gym room just for you, but not in the_ **_living room_ **—a disagreement. But one thing they immediately agreed upon was the color of their bedroom ceiling; it was sky blue. It reminded Shouyou of the Rio sky that he held dear, and it’d make for a good “It’s because I’m Argentinian” joke whenever people asked about it.

When Oikawa opens his eyes this morning, he’s greeted with the deep, dark blue of a night sky, dotted with glow-in-the-dark star stickers half-peeled with age. 

— 

Oikawa would not call himself a morning person, but these days he would say he loves mornings: it’s the gentle rays of light filtering through the blinds they brought back from Japan, the smell of green tea crawling in the air, and the roars of Shouyou’s blender for his daily fruit-vegetable-protein shake. 

That last thing is what clues Oikawa in that something’s amiss: It’s really quiet.

Did he oversleep? Or did Shouyou finally, praise the Lord, break the damn blender? Oikawa reaches out to the bedside table next to him, his face snuggled deeper into the pillow to avoid the blinding light, but instead of a phone or the metal band he’s searching for— his hand meets a wall that’s not supposed to be there.

Oikawa looks up and blinks. The fog in his brain quickly dissipates as he stares at the Jose Blanco poster carefully hung right next to his pillow. He knows Jose Blanco. Except— except this Jose Blanco looks _much_ younger than the Jose who had just visited their home a couple of weeks ago, bringing along his wife for dinner while they were vacationing in Brazil.

"Shouyou?" he tentatively calls. 

There is no answer. 

Oikawa sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. When he opens them again, he’s still met with the same sight: off-white walls covered with low-definition posters, the dark blue ceiling, and a study desk littered with papers in the corner of the room.

He hasn’t had a study desk since he moved to Argentina.

“Tooru,” a distant, familiar voice calls him from downstairs— _downstairs?_ —pulling Oikawa back from his dazed confusion. “Breakfast is ready on the table, I’m leaving first,” the feminine voice says. 

It’s his mother. 

This is his childhood bedroom—the one he hasn’t seen since he was eighteen. His family moved away from Sendai when he was still in San Juan; he didn’t have the chance to say a final farewell to this room. Oikawa takes in his surroundings and notices the details he didn't manage to see the first time: There is an Aoba Johsai jacket hanging by the door. There are the messy stacks of sci-fi magazines tucked in the corner of his bookshelf; the magazine that had gone out of business by the time he came back to Japan the first time around. His sports bag—still white and teal instead of his current black and blue—sits on top of the scruffy red chair next to his desk. Oikawa wrinkles his nose; he never liked that chair. 

This room perfectly mirrors what he remembers of his childhood bedroom—down to the little things he’s forgotten were there, like the wide tear on the wallpaper next to his door; Iwaizumi’s badge of honor from when they were ten. It’s like a page freshly plucked out of an album. Except—this is real. Somehow. He pinches the skin on the back of his hand, and the pain sobers him further. He takes a deep breath and he can smell the faint whiff of miso soup from outside of his bedroom. 

With a shaky hand, Oikawa reaches out towards the small bedside table—on the opposite side of what he’s used to—to retrieve his phone. It’s an old model, thick and heavy in his hold. The sound of his heart pounding, fast, hard, like a sledgehammer over a broken door, rushes into his ears. He can vaguely hear his older sister’s voice calling his name, but he can’t be sure. 

He has to make a few attempts to unlock the phone; he cannot remember the series of numbers he used to have for his password. When his attempt finally bears fruit, he grimaces. It’s Iwaizumi’s birthday—0610. The lock opens to the rows of applications in his phone, the designs look clunky and awfully antiquated.

He thumbs over the pages, quickly scanning the notifications he has. LINE messages from Iwa-chan, Mattsun, Mii-chan—who’s Mii-chan?—Hanamaki… _no, no, there is just no way,_ Oikawa’s mind reels. He taps on the calendar icon. 

And there, written on the top left of his phone screen, right above “Tuesday” and under “June”, is the year 2012.

  
  


— 

  
  


###  **2030**

When Tooru came to, it was to the violent whirring of an old blender and the sight of freshly repainted blue-sky ceiling. There was no charming face with a handsome smile, his usual morning call. 

Uh-oh. That usually meant trouble. Or it was trouble that could not be lulled away with a good night’s sleep.

Tooru stretched, allowing his muscles and joints to groan, and he sighed as he sunk back into the bed. Without turning his eyes away from the ceiling, he held his hand out towards the bedside table, scanning the surface until the tips of his fingers touched what he was looking for: a metal band, platinum white—his ring. He put it on just like every other morning. At this point it was not so much a conscious decision as a morning habit—the ring a comforting weight on his finger. 

He got up and waddled his way outside of the bedroom; down the narrow hallway, past the bathroom, and through the spread out yoga mat in their living room. Shouyou was in the kitchen, standing with his back towards the doorway. He didn’t notice Tooru stepping into the room, closing onto him—definitely the blender’s fault. He yelped when Tooru snaked his arms around his waist, corralling him into a tight hug.

“Morning,” Tooru said, voice hoarse from sleep. 

Shouyou hummed, his hand still unmoved from the top of the blender. “Have you washed up?”

Tooru shook his head no. “Wanna see you first,” he said, ending it with a sweet kiss on Shouyou’s nape to show his sincerity. 

Shouyou hummed again, this time with more amusement. That tugged the corners of Tooru’s lips; he wasn’t in _that_ big of a trouble then. Shouyou turned his blender off and made a move to the water dispenser on the other side of their kitchen, making Tooru wobble along with him. Tooru didn’t want to let go of Shouyou just yet.

Shouyou made him drink a full glass of water first—very typical of Shouyou—before he finally turned around and wound his hands behind Tooru’s neck. 

“You had a good sleep last night?” 

Tooru bobbed his head left and right, a vague affirmative noise from the back of his throat— _so so_. 

Shuyou flattened his hands across Tooru’s naked chest, swiping down around his hips, and gently rested them on the small of Tooru’s back, making him shiver. “Do you want to talk about it then?” Shouyou finally asked, his voice low and crystal clear in the morning light. 

Because some bad habits were so inwrought in the fabrics of your being, no matter how old you were, Tooru said, “No?” 

Shouyou sighed. Or it could have also been a huff of a laugh—sometimes it was difficult to know when it came to Shouyou dealing with Tooru. He pushed Tooru with the tips of his index fingers. “Alright then,” he said, as he swiveled around Tooru and dragged his feet back to his blender, not sparing Tooru another glance. 

“Wait, no, Shouyou.” Tooru reached up to catch Shouyou’s wrist. When Shouyou turned to him again, it was with raised eyebrows and an expectant smile—the little minx. Tooru huffed. “Okay, let’s talk,” he grunted. 

He pulled Shouyou and boxed him against the kitchen counter; Shouyou relented without so much as a pushback. Instead, he drew Tooru by his waist, pulling him even closer. Shouyou held his gaze, all patient.

Tooru felt his jaw working— _click clack click clack_ —and he said, like it was punched out of his chest, “Si te lastimé, lo lamento mucho _._ ” 

This time Shouyou actually barked a laugh, though it sounded incredulous more than amused. “ _S_ _i!_ ?”— _if!?_ —he asked disbelievingly, his eyebrows raised even higher. 

Tooru pouted. This particular face usually scored a positive point in Shouyou’s book, but it might have been too overdone now; Shouyou just narrowed his eyes at him. Tooru sighed. “Bueno, bueno, fue mi culpa,”— _i_ _t’s my fault_ —“perdón,” he finished, this time softer. 

Shouyou leaned back, regarding Tooru. Tooru didn’t see any ire in those eyes, but they still made him nervous sometimes, even after all these years. Shouyou reached up to brush his knuckles against Tooru’s cheek, touch feather-light. “Can you repeat that to me,” Shouyou said, “this time in Japanese?” 

Tooru blew his breath. It was always harder, in Japanese. If it was in their shared foreign language, he could always gloss a layer of aloofness over whatever emotion he was digging out for Shouyou. 

Tooru felt raw and weak, so he hid his face in the crook of Shouyou’s neck, and Shouyou readily welcomed him there, his hand patting down on Tooru’s hair. He inhaled, and then he breathed out, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me."

That earned Tooru a chaste kiss on his neck, almost like praise. “Now, do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not here,” Tooru weakly whined. “In the living room? So I can cuddle you?” 

Shouyou gave his neck another peck. “Let’s go then,” he said, before he pulled Tooru back into the living room. He was completely unruffled by Tooru’s incessant need for physical touch, and Tooru loved him for it.

They settled themselves into the wide couch; Tooru in-between Shouyou’s legs, practically glued to his chest as Shouyou leaned back against the armrest. The position was almost instinctual to them, their go-to whenever he needed to bodily hold Shouyou down or vice versa to have a serious talk.

“So,” Shouyou started. 

“So,” Tooru echoed emptily.

Shouyou flicked his forehead and Tooru complained with a half-hearted “Ow.” 

“So?” Shouyou repeated again. 

Tooru rubbed his face against Shouyou’s chest—it was both hard and soft and honestly a magnificent work of art, he’d sink his face there for longer if he wasn’t testing Shouyou’s patience right now.

“I—” Tooru cut himself. He looked up; he had to see Shouyou in the eyes for this. “I don’t resent you for having more years in you than me, on the court,” he finally choked out. 

Shouyou didn’t budge. He just brushed back Tooru’s bangs, tenderly carding through his hair, as if saying _I know_. 

“It was just— yesterday my old teammates sent me a photo. They finally officiated Thiago as our main setter. You know I _hate_ Thiago,” Tooru didn’t mean for the last bit to come out as that much of a snarl, but it did, and Shouyou gave an understanding hum, quietly prodding Tooru to continue. “And— I don’t know. I know what I decided on was right. We talked about this. But sometimes— I am not sure if it was for the best? Perhaps— perhaps by playing for a few more years I’d be able to prove myself more? But I don’t even know what _else_ I need to prove.” 

Tooru retired in his own terms, just earlier this year. It was not because of injury or anything grim; he just wanted to go out with a bang, right after his third Olympics, with glory still etched onto his name and not the title of a wilting athlete. 

“You’ve proven enough,” Shouyou gently said.

“You think?”

“You said so: we’ve talked about this. You’ve proven enough,” Shouyou said again, firmer. “And Thiago might be called a young prodigy, and he might be smug about it, but he still needs to work on a lot of things. You know this.” 

He did. And he didn’t actually _hate_ Thiago, it was just—he’d been left to his own devices more now that he didn’t have to think about upcoming matches and trophies and medals. A lot of things piled up, making his head heavy and murky and—”And yesterday Damião quit.”

Shouyou blinked. “That favorite setter of yours? The small one?” 

Tooru nodded grimly. “The small one.”

“Didn’t you say he’s the most determined player in your team? Even more than his friends?” 

“Yeah, but,” Tooru huffed. “But it seems he’s discouraged because his rival got recruited into the U-19 team and not him.” 

Shouyou cackled. “What’s that, that’s so you.” 

“I didn’t quit, though!” Tooru griped. 

“Of course you didn’t.” Shouyou placated him with a kiss on his forehead. “Give him a few more days. He’ll come back. And if he doesn’t, you can go find him.” 

Tooru cuddled closer; he hummed into Shouyou’s neck, and he said, “Okay.” And then, after a moment passed and Shouyou just continued combing his hair in companionable silence, Tooru said, “Thank you.” 

“Welcome,” Shouyou drowsily mumbled, lips barely moving from Tooru's temple. 

If they were to lie down here for a bit longer, they might just fall back to sleep. The temperature was blessedly mild, and the warm glow of the morning sun kindled their skin like a mother’s embrace, quiet and restful. But Tooru couldn’t—not yet. He had to say this out loud. 

“Shouyou,” Tooru called. 

Shouyou answered with a questioning noise. 

“I didn’t really mean it when— when I said I think you were just looking down on me.” Tooru glanced up again, meeting Shouyou’s eyes. “Or that I wish you’d just retire. I don’t. I like seeing you play.”

This time, Shouyou gave him a kiss on the lips; light and quick. “I know you do,” he said. And then he cradled Tooru’s face with both of his hands, and he said, with so much sincerity in his eyes Tooru could cry any second now, “And Tooru. You _do_ know I am proud of you. No matter what your decisions were. Since then, and from here onwards.” 

Tooru could feel his lips tremble and _god_ , this was far too early for this much emotion, so he responded in the way he knew best: He deflected. “Even when I’m old and wrinkled and ugly and I shit my own pants, you’ll still be proud of me?”

Shouyou rolled his eyes hard. He knew what Tooru was doing. “Yes, Tooru, even when you’re old and wrinkled and you shit your own pants.” 

“But not when I’m ugly!?” 

“Tooru,” Shouyou scolded, though there was no reprimand in his voice. 

“I _knew_ I should’ve invested more on skincare,” Tooru whined, his hand covering the non-existent wrinkles on his forehead. “Tell me, Shouyou, who is it? Is it Gabriel? Mateus? Must be the young players.” 

That made Shouyou laugh—his first genuine laugh this morning, and the messy knot in Tooru’s heart unraveled with it. “Tooru you’re not even _that_ old,” Shouyou argued. This was a tired banter between them, but it just made it easier for Tooru to slide into it.

“I’m _thirty six,_ ” Tooru whispered in terror. 

Without so much as a word, Shouyou flipped their position and Tooru went with an _oof._ “You think that’s old? Do you want me to prove to you how you’re not _that_ old?” Shouyou asked, but it sounded more like a challenge with how he ground his ass right on top of Tooru’s groin. 

Tooru just had his morning water fill, but he felt his throat drying up in record time. “Don’t you have a match later this afternoon?” 

“It got postponed. Because their flight got cancelled.”

“Oh,” Tooru grinned. “Prove it to me then.” He rolled his hips upwards and pulled Shouyou for a searing kiss and there was that. This was not the first time Tooru was grateful they decided to buy a wide, long couch for their home.

  
  


— 

  
  


Oikawa stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

He’s wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt, red tie, and—he pulls a face—ugly plaid trousers. Aoba Johsai’s summer uniform. He tries to turn this way and that, seeing the seams fraying on the edges. The uniform hugs his figure perfectly, but it still feels wrong somehow; the fullness of his body that he carried with pride worn away overnight. His limbs feel both too long and too short at the same time, lean and gangly.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re too narcissistic for your own good?” a voice comes from behind him.

Oikawa almost jolts, but he stops himself. He glares at the source of the voice through the mirror instead; standing against the doorway with her arms folded on her chest, smirk on her face. 

“Sis,” Oikawa stiffly greets. The last time he talked to his sister was two weeks ago, through a video call. She called just to bemoan how Takeru doesn't respond to her texts immediately anymore. Which—was honestly a drag. Takeru is a twenty-six years old man, he can take his time replying to his mom's text. But he isn't twenty-six here, isn't he? Which brings Oikawa's mind to— 

"Wait, where's Takeru?" 

Oikawa Tomoe, she should be twenty-eight years old now, shoves him by the shoulder and takes the space in front of the mirror like it's her god given birthright. Oikawa would have scowled, but he's more taken aback by how easily this body just got flinged by her strength. He forgets how strong Tomoe is. He hasn't seen Tomoe in person since his wedding. 

"What are you even talking about," Tomoe frowns, hand rifling through her make-up pouch. "He's at his father's house this week, remember?" She pulls out a lipstick and the curl of her lips deepens in disgust at the mention of her ex-husband. 

"Right."

"I'll have to pick him up this weekend," she sighs. Her grip on the sink tightens, her shoulders defeated. 

Tomoe would meet another man who would become her second husband in a few years, and then she would have what she called, as she told him in one very inebriated night, the longest stretch of happiness in her entire life. But there is no point in telling her that now, is there? 

Oikawa remembers he used to resent his sister a bit when he was in high school. She worked her fingers to the bone, leaving Takeru in his or their mother's care for the better part of the week. She sometimes lashed out at him, and then drunkenly cried herself to sleep beneath her work desk, where Takeru could not see her. Oikawa used to think, what a messy adult. 

But now, when he sees her applying her lipstick in front of the bathroom sink, not a thread out of place from her work blazer, with exhaustion carved below her eyes, he finds that she looks so—young.

"What are you staring at? It's creepy." 

Oikawa smiles. "I think you're pretty."

Tomoe snaps her eyes at him with a finger pointing like a threat. "I'm not buying you anything."

"I'm serious though," Oikawa says, but it comes out more like a whine. 

She rolls her eyes with practiced ease—comes with living with Oikawa Tooru, she used to tell Shouyou—and puts the lipstick back into her make-up pouch. "What are you dilly-dallying here for, anyway? He's waiting for you outside, you know."

Oikawa tilts his head. "He?" 

"Yeah, Iwa-chan?" Tomoe frowns at him. "For the last 10 minutes."

Oikawa can feel his jaw slacken. _Iwa-chan._ He always walked to school together with Iwaizumi—how could he forget? He bolts out of the bathroom with a quick _thanks_ and jumps down the stairs, the wooden steps shriek in his hurry. 

“What about your breakfast?” He can hear Tomoe yelling from the bathroom.

“I’ll pass!” He yells back. He snatches his bag from the living room couch and runs to flop down on the _genkan,_ eyeing the shoe rack in a slight panic—which shoes does he even wear, again?—and haphazardly picks a pair that looks his size. 

When he’s toeing his shoe, he can hear the rush of his heartbeat picking up speed—he’s nervous. How will he even interact with this Iwaizumi? This is not his body, not his heart; this is what he _was_ , from way before. Will _this_ body react to the Iwaizumi of this age the way it did when it was his own? He reckons that this is a very illogical way of thinking, but neither is waking up eighteen years in the past. This fear strikes his spine, making him unable to look up as he finally opens the door to the outside. 

“What the _fuck_ Shitty-kawa, you’re so fucking late.” 

And there, standing right outside of the low-fence of his house, is Iwaizumi Hajime; looking no older than eighteen, leaning on one leg, and just astoundingly, gloriously, pissed. Oikawa bursts out laughing. 

“What the _fuck,_ ” Iwaizumi repeats, with more feeling.

“No, _fuck,_ I’m sorry,” Oikawa wheezes. But he can’t _stop._

“Did you finally break your brain?”

This Iwaizumi is so— _angry._ It’s not that he is _angry_ all the time, but the air around him just speaks of teenage rage and sulk. The irate strokes of a frown are evergreen between his eyebrows. Oikawa used to tease him about it a lot, of how badly they’d affect his aging, only for them to find out decades later that Iwaizumi is the kind of lucky bastard who’d survive the mid-30s wrinkling curse without so much of a drop of anti-aging cream.

“No, it’s just—” Oikawa tries to control his breathing, his shoulders still shaky from laughter. “Your face’s funny.” 

Iwaizumi’s scowl intensifies. “This has been my face since I was born, you fuckface.”

“ _Exactly._ ”

Iwaizumi pinches the bridge of his nose, tilting his face heavenwards. “Come on, it’s not even 8 in the morning.” 

Oikawa grins and skips his way to the front of the gate, his heart lighter now that he’s seen this Iwaizumi. This Iwaizumi is—small. He’s not actually lanky; he’s all filled out, as much as an eighteen year old boy can be filled out. His back straight, his posture picture perfect; Iwaizumi’s future self would be proud seeing it. He looks dashing—eighteen years old kind of dashing. No wonder Oikawa used to be head over heels for him. But he isn’t eighteen anymore, at least not mentally. 

“So how are you doing, Iwa-chan?” he sing-songs, the nickname familiar on his tongue. 

It’s astonishing how Iwaizumi can express revulsion by ways of a flick of his eyes and a minute twitch of his eyebrows. It’s a talent he retains far into his adulthood. Oikawa chuckles and bounces his way forward.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi barks. “Did you actually break your brain or something?”

“Huh?” He halts his step and looks back to Iwaizumi. 

Iwaizumi thumbs behind his shoulder, looking genuinely puzzled. “The station is being renovated? We’re going the other way.” 

Oikawa snaps his fingers, “Right!” He exclaims. Early summer 2012. It was the year the subway station near their homes went into a heavy renovation, and they had to take the bus instead. He remembers how he used to hate this situation; it cuts his time walking alongside Iwaizumi shorter. 

He saunters his way back in three large strides and lands by attacking Iwaizumi with a forceful arm around his shoulders. “Sorry, Iwa-chan. I’m still sleepy,” he says cheerfully, dragging Iwaizumi with him in the right direction. 

“The—” Iwaizumi squeaks—he _squeaks?_ —”The hell you’re being clingy for?” he tries to shrug Oikawa’s arm away, his face flushing so brightly. He’s _embarrassed._

Another bubble of laughter is rising from within his chest, but Oikawa tries to hold it down. Iwaizumi looks so endearing like this—attempting to stomp down his adolescent crush from cracking onto the surface with the subtlety and finesse of a wild boar. 

If Iwaizumi is a wild boar, then Oikawa would be a sad sloth, he supposes. When he was eighteen, whenever his brain wasn’t preoccupied by the neverending paperwork for his move to Argentina, all he could think about was an image of himself mentally picking the petals off an imaginary forget-me-not flower— _Iwa-chan loves me, Iwa-chan loves me not._

He can’t believe he was that _dense._

This is something that his eighteen years old self would have to deal with for the next coming years, as painful and embarrassing as it would be. Though—and his heart twinges at this, an abrupt ache like ice water being poured into his veins—that will depend on whether _he_ will be able to go back to his time or not. 

This realization freezes him on the spot; his feet suddenly become heavy with it. The bright bubble inside his chest deforms into a forbidding wail, threatening to spill. _Shouyou_ , his mind screams.

Iwaizumi stops in his tracks as well. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Huh? I’m—” Oikawa glances up. He can almost feel himself paling. “I’m fine,” he finally manages.

“You are anything _but_ fine.” 

Oikawa rasps a laugh—nothing would escape Iwa-chan, after all. “I skipped breakfast,” he tries.

Iwaizumi frowns at him; he doesn’t seem to buy his excuse. “I’m gonna let this slide because we’re already almost late,” he says, before he turns back and continues walking down the road. 

Oikawa trails along behind him, trying to keep pace, his eyes on his feet and the gray of the asphalt. His brain rattles with thoughts; the infinite amount of possibilities that might or might not happen, and all the ways they tangle and untangle until they all come together and arrive to the same end: Shouyou. 

He’s overcome with how much he wants to see Shouyou. 

“Fuck, Oikawa, _run!_ ” 

Oikawa, feeling like a stretched rubber that’s just been snapped back, says “What?” and he sees Iwaizumi _sprint_ towards a waiting bus in the distance. Oikawa blinks and throttles himself into a sprint as well, this time _really_ trying to keep pace with Iwaizumi, though: _fuck,_ he’s fast.

There’s only so much a pair of human legs can do. By the time they arrive at the bus stop, the vehicle has taken off with a mocking snarl of its tires. They can only mournfully stare at the back of the bus as it starts to disappear in the distance. 

“You,” Iwaizumi points at him, panting. “You’re gonna be the one who explain to Kato-sen why we’re late.”

Oikawa grimaces. No one fucking likes Kato-sensei when they’re late. Not even his 36-year-old self. He hobbles towards the schedule post to check for the next bus, gasping for air—hell, this Oikawa _really_ needs to work on his stamina.

He skims the hours and minutes of the oncoming buses, a finger dragging on the schedule board. He hopes the next one that goes through Aoba Johsai won’t take too long; he can’t afford being left alone with his thoughts—at least there will be _more_ _people_ in school than a suburban bus stop. Oikawa slowly reads the time table, and then the bus numbers, and then he sees where the next oncoming bus is going. And his heart stops. 

_Karasuno._

Iwaizumi is saying something to him, but his voice sounds like it is coming through water, all muddy and muted. A high-pitch screech smudges Oikawa's surroundings into insignificance as his mind unspools a mile a minute.

What if—and this is only what if, against all logic and science—what if he wasn’t the only one who got sent here? What if Shouyou is _also here?_

His heart starts beating again, fast, but this time not with anxiety; it’s hope. He feels breathless, and it’s not from exertion; it’s hope.

From the corner of his eye, he can see a bus approaching from the distance, the bus that carries promises. His heart sings; quietly, prudently— _hopeful._

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. He sounds strangled, but frankly he can’t care less. 

“Huh?” 

“I’m sorry, okay.”

“What?” 

Oikawa gulps. The bus is here, the door opens in front of him with a hiss. “I think you’ll need to deal with Kato-sen yourself,” he says, and then he lurches forward and swings his way inside, tapping his bus card in utter haste. 

He is barreling deep into the bus’ backseat when he hears Iwaizumi’s thunderous yell from the curb outside: “Shitty-kawa, what the _fuck!?_ ”

  
  


—

###  **2029**

The ceremony was held in an outdoor garden in Buenos Aires. It was a result of compromises, mostly on Shouyou’s part. They settled on Buenos Aires because it was the closest city from Tokyo compared to both Rio and São Paulo— _by only 250 kilometres,_ Shouyou always chimed in; they googled—and an outdoor garden because there was just no way Tooru was going to spend one of the most, if not _the most,_ important day of his life with the sand caking his perfect hair.

He wore all-white, because that was just his color. He almost went for sky blue, but then wouldn’t it look too gaudy next to Shouyou’s dark blue? White was more classic and neutral, and they’d look pretty for the photos next to whatever color their friends and family wore. When Tooru rattled off all the pros and cons of wearing either color, Shouyou just nodded along and periodically kissed any part of Tooru’s face to appease him.

The hair stylist spent _at least_ half an hour trying to tame Shouyou’s wild curls, spiffing them up into nicely coiffed swept-back hair. He looked dapper in his tailored suit; all handsome and gorgeous like a prince that just walked out of Tooru’s childhood dreams. Though he couldn’t be _really_ sure about it, in the beginning, because the first time he saw Shouyou up-close that day was when they were standing at the altar, and Shouyou said, in a loud and clear voice, “I do,” and he looked all blurry and melted around the edges because Tooru was too busy silently weeping his eyes out.

Shouyou had to wipe the tears off Tooru’s face and softly call his name, fond and tender, before Tooru could finally choke out his own “I do.” 

Right after they had their first kiss as husband and husband, Shouyou mumbled with a smile on Tooru’s lips, “You’re ridiculous.”

Tooru sniffed. “It’s because of my age.” 

Shouyou rolled his eyes, but then he dove in to kiss Tooru again. The whoop’s and whistles of their friends and family were the background music to their fervent kiss, but Tooru chose to not pay them any mind; at least not when he was still at the altar, with his _husband._

During the reception, Shouyou was the one who plunged into the throngs of people first. He greeted this group and that, because of course he did. Tooru would too, if not for his swollen eyes and clogged up nose. So he sat at one of the quieter tables; a flute of champagne in his right hand and a wet towel for his swellings in his left. That was where Iwaizumi found him.

“Congratulations on your marriage, Shitty-kawa,” Iwaizumi bent forward into his line of sight, a wide grin spread on his face. He took the empty seat in front of him; the chair creaked under his weight. “Or is it not Oikawa anymore?”

“It’s not anymore, on paper.” Tooru curled his lips, corking up his giddiness— _he’s a Hinata now._ “But it’ll stay ‘Oikawa’ for official merchandise and all that. It’s easier that way.”

“Still Shitty-kawa then,” Iwaizumi concluded with a snicker. 

Tooru shrugged. “Oikawa still has Takeru to carry the name, but Shouyou only has Natsu. So.” He grabbed one of the flutes from the champagne table, conveniently within his reach, and offered one to Iwaizumi. “Drink up, we paid too much just for the champagne.”

“I bet this was your doing anyway,” Iwaizumi chuckled, before he accepted the flute. “You’ve always liked champagne.” 

“That I do,” Tooru bashfully admitted. Shouyou insisted that they should have had more wine instead, because _Tooru isn’t Argentina famous for its wine?_ But since Shouyou was Shouyou and he didn’t actually care about it, bless his little heart, Tooru got the last word for the alcoholic make-up of their matrimony day. 

Iwaizumi broke into an ugly guffaw at that—he saw right through Tooru immediately; he probably could guess how his expensive-champagne argument with Shouyou went down word by word. “I hope your ‘Oikawa’ merchandise can cover the expense, then,” he wheezed. 

“It _has_ to,” Tooru said, raising his flute. “Two times Olympics MVP, baby!”

“Not the third time, though?” Iwaizumi ribbed, and then he clinked his own flute against Tooru’s. “Cheers for your marriage.” 

“Iwa-chan, that was so uncalled for,” Tooru wailed, but he drank his champagne with a smile curving his lips, and they fell into silence. 

There was a wide chasm of years of oceans between them; a few nostalgic years lost to sweet, jagged memories, and the other years that took them for healing. But that was more than a decade ago now, and Iwaizumi was still Iwaizumi, despite everything; he was the only one who Tooru could have a comfortable quiet with, before Shouyou. Tooru didn’t feel compelled to break the silence, so he just finished his champagne and took another one for himself. Iwaizumi was the one who spoke first. 

“I can’t believe you’re the first one to get hitched between the two of us.”

Tooru slanted him a look. “Should I feel insulted by that? I feel like I should be insulted by that.”

“If the shoe fits.” Iwaizumi threw him an amused grin.

Tooru raised his champagne, peering through the bubbly liquid—it was halfway finished already. When did he drink it? “Well, this just means I win this one.” 

Iwaizumi cackled. “Win _what,_ even?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” Tooru mulishly waved his flute, “I won everything.” He might had been a little bit tipsy, he would admit, but right then he was recalling Shouyou’s back; on that beach court and in their bed and everywhere else, and whenever Shouyou _finally_ turned to him and beamed a glowing smile, his eyes crinkled close, all for Tooru. It felt like he’d been awarded an off the court MVP title, just for that.

Iwaizumi raised his own flute as an answer, a sign of concession— _only because it’s your special day,_ Tooru could almost hear him say. 

“So what’s your next plan?” Iwaizumi asked.

Tooru hummed, swirling the champagne on his hand. “I’m moving to São Paulo.”

“It’s final?” He blinked at him. Iwaizumi knew first-hand how impossible it was to convince Tooru to move to a different country. But what did he expect? Tooru’s decision was not only his own now.

“The MVP thing was no joke, you know? I immediately got a coaching job there,” Tooru said. Hell would freeze over if Tooru didn’t preen at least twice a day.

The news seemed to pique Iwaizumi’s interest. “Ooh. Professional?” 

“No, just a high school.” Tooru gestured towards the rowdy bunch of professional athletes scampering around the reception floor in front of them, everyone halfway drunk already. “You go take care of that kind. I’ll take the innocent youths instead.” 

Iwaizumi shook his head, sceptical, “Well as long as you don’t corrupt them or anything.” 

Tooru clutched his non-existent pearls and gasped. He was about to hurl a cutting riposte at Iwaizumi when a hand slid over his back and rested on the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine; he knew this touch. And of course, it was Shouyou, standing next to him with a plate of bowl foods on his hand. Shouyou had lost his suit somewhere along the way, but Tooru wouldn’t complain; the white button-down was delicious to look at all the same.

“Shouyou!” Tooru cheered. His face might have brightened in the most embarrassing way possible because Shouyou chuckled and leaned down to kiss his temple. From the corner of his eye Tooru could see Iwaizumi rolling his eyes so hard his head went along with it.

“Don’t just drink the champagne, Tooru. Have some food too.” Shouyou shoved the plate into Tooru’s free hand, and Tooru gratefully took it; he liked the shrimp salad a lot during their taste testing session.

“Congrats, Shouyou-kun,” Iwaizumi said, his champagne lifted. 

Shouyou beamed him a winsome grin, a blush on his cheeks. “Thank you Iwaizumi-san.”

“Who have you greeted so far?” Tooru asked.

“Not many, I was mostly just checking in on my family. And yours,” he nudged Tooru’s nose, “Tomoe-san is already busy pilfering through the champagne table, not unlike someone.”

Tooru grimaced and Iwaizumi cackled a mean one. “That’s an Oikawa for you,” Iwaizumi said.

He didn’t really want to think about his apparently congenital proclivities towards expensive liquor, so Tooru asked, “Did everyone from your old team manage to come?”

Their wedding invitation was sent out only a few months ago, but they already warned their friends and family in Japan about an overseas ceremony from a year before the Olympics. Tooru was nothing if not a brazen mule, diving headfirst into wedding planning right after the proposal; making sure everyone knew the destination of the ticket they would need to buy long before he and Shouyou even booked a venue. And in a way, Shouyou wasn’t any better—he already informed his family about the possibility of long travel for his wedding even _before_ the proposal. 

Shouyou absentmindedly kneaded the back of Tooru’s neck. “Almost everyone is here. Wan-san couldn’t come because he just had a new baby, but everyone else came.” 

Tooru hummed. “Should I greet them?” 

“No, it’s okay,” Shouyou said. His eyes flickered towards Iwaizumi for a split second, but Tooru didn’t miss that; neither did Iwaizumi judging from how he raised his eyebrows. “You sit here, I’ll go greet them myself,” he finished, smiling down at him as he rubbed the faint tear track on Tooru’s cheek. 

Before Tooru could answer, Iwaizumi already stood up from his seat. “It’s okay, I’ll come with you,” he grinned, looking more menacing than cheerful. “I haven’t met those rascals for far too long.” He cracked his neck, twisting his torso, which were probably meant to stretch his muscles, but they came off as threatening instead. Tooru could hear Shouyou snort beside him.

“They’re there, near the DJ table,” Shouyou pointed, and Iwaizumi ambled his way there with a sinister swing of his arm. 

Tooru couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. He got back on his feet, “I’ll come too, then,” he said, and he really was about to step forward, but then Shouyou tugged his elbow and pulled him into a kiss; the kind that fluttered his heart into the air and turned his legs into jam.

“What’s this?” Tooru breathed, when Shouyou finally let go of his lips, all wet and reddened.

“Nothing,” Shouyou said. 

It was the kind of ‘nothing’ that meant there was definitely something, and Tooru would have to squat down and wait it out until Shouyou was willing to broach the subject himself. Shouyou usually would come out of this kind of funk already a thousand and one steps ahead in his thought process, while Tooru was left alone at the starting line. Tooru gave him an unimpressed look; Shouyou just gave him a beaming, no-question-asked grin in reply. 

Tooru wouldn’t get his answer until far into the night, after they had finished their round of champagnes and goodbyes. It was when they could finally retire into their deluxe honeymoon suite—courtesy of Tooru’s meticulous planning.

The suite had a huge bathroom and a sturdy canopied double bed, which was definitely good enough for Shouyou; Tooru also requested all the romantic amenities like rose petals and scented candles, which were immediately swept down to the floor and blown out to solid wax by Shouyou— _they’re fire hazards, Tooru_. He should’ve guessed. Tooru relented to the fact that this was just going to be his life now, which was why he was completely calm when he was on his third out of six-steps skincare routine and a freshly showered Shouyou tackled him into the bed.

“Ouch,” Tooru dryly said. He was still smearing cream under his eyes. Honestly, would Shouyou take responsibility if his own husband— _his husband,_ Tooru’s heart danced in staccato—had to be carried to the emergency care on their wedding night for an eye-poking accident?

“Today is too tiring,” Shouyou groaned into the pillow. He went silent for a short moment, then he piped up again, “Do you remember the Third Day Hell from the Nationals? This is even more tiring than that.”

“Um, I don’t know if you’re mocking me or what.” Tooru uncapped his serum bottle. “But I didn’t go to the Nationals, remember?” 

He could hear Shouyou’s muffled gasp, which was just unfairly adorable. Shouyou then tightened his arm around Tooru’s stomach, burying his nose in Tooru’s hips. “Soooorry.” 

Tooru knew that tone. Shouyou wasn’t really sorry; he was just being a little shit. “No, you aren’t,” he accused. And then Shouyou tilted his head so Tooru could see his face, and ah, there it was: the impish grin and the glint in the eyes of a beautiful bastard. 

Neither of them was ever one to accept defeat, so he straddled Shouyou and leg-locked him from moving. “Nuh-uh, you have to be punished for that kind of dry joke.” 

“And what would the punishment be?” Shouyou leered.

Tooru pushed five drops of serum onto his hand. “Finish my skincare with me.” 

Shouyou shook with laughter, and then he surrendered himself to Tooru slapping cold liquid onto the surface of his face and neck.

Of course this wasn’t the first time Shouyou was subjected to Tooru’s increasingly aggressive skincare routine. Sometimes there would be electricity in the air between them, a telltale sign that they were about to waste all the serum and toner; washing them away with spit and sweat from the friction of their bodies. But tonight seemed to be one of those nights where they fell into a serene hush, like a warm bath after a day-long work.

But _of course_ Shouyou had to disturb the calm water—he practically _jumped_ into it. 

Shouyou, completely out of left field, because they had been together for a few years now but sometimes Tooru still could not fathom how Shouyou’s mind worked, faintly sighed. “Iwaizumi-san was really hot today.” 

This was the kind of statement that your partner would usually throw at you as some kind of a test— _hey, your ex looks hot today; are you, perhaps, in a way or another, still attracted to them more than me?_ —but Tooru knew better. 

Shouyou _meant it_ when he said he thought Iwaizumi looked hot. Because Shouyou—most people wouldn’t believe this even though Tooru would avow with a solemn swear to all the deities above and below—was actually a little bit of a slut. 

“Hey.” Tooru pinched his cheek, channeling his affront with his strength. “I’m still _here,_ you know. _Your husband._ ” 

Shouyou, the damn bastard, snaked his hands downwards and squeezed Tooru’s butt. “Oh, I can feel that,” he grinned, all toothy and definitely shit-eating. 

Tooru blushed. Which was just _ridiculous,_ was what it was—how could he even get aroused by something as stupid as little fondling at his big age? He had to get his mind out of the gutter, so he patted Shouyou’s cheeks; still a bit sticky from the serum. “No, not now,” he groused, “let me finish applying all of this to you first.”

Shouyou hummed; canting his head up with his eyes closed, an offering for Tooru.

Tooru finished the remaining two steps in a record speed, because Shouyou’s hands were still on his butt and they were honestly pretty distracting. When he finished, he shouted “Done!” and slapped both of Shouyou’s cheeks hard. Because Shouyou deserved that. 

Shouyou definitely knew he did; he just chuckled and held Tooru’s hands on his jaw, cupping his face with them. And then he tilted his head so he could softly kiss the inside of Tooru’s palm, of Tooru’s wrist, and then he said, “Though to be honest with you,” Shouyou smiled, crookedly. “When the officiant asked if anyone wanted to object, I was a bit nervous.”

“ _You?_ ” Tooru scoffed. “ _You_ were the one who was worried?” 

Shouyou blinked. “Yeah?” 

“Tell me.” Tooru bent forward, just for greater emphasis. “How many among the guests tonight have you messed around with?” 

Shouyou burst into laughter, shaking Tooru’s hands with it. “Now that’s just _unfair._ ” 

“How is _that_ unfair.” He squished Shouyou’s cheeks just for the hell of it. “ _I_ should be the one who felt worried.” 

“That’s only because you never slept with your acquaintances back then,” Shouyou retorted.

Shouyou was right. But that was just another evidence that proved how more sensible Tooru was compared to Shouyou, in some aspects. Because people would think Tooru was the difficult one between the two of them, but that was because they didn’t actually _know_ Shouyou; him and his fleeting touches across people’s lives. What Tooru didn’t say about his worry was, _what if you decided that you didn’t want to stay with me after all?_

Tooru thunked his forehead to Shouyou’s and rubbed them against each other with a long grumble, making Shouyou shriek with laughter, the bed shakes under them.

“But hey,” Tooru said. His tone was deep, a little bit raw, and Shouyou immediately stopped; holding his gaze to Tooru’s. “You know that there is no need for you to be worried, right?” 

A warm smile spread across Shouyou’s lips. “Yeah, I know.” He kissed Tooru’s palm again. “We are way past that.”

Tooru wondered if it was even possible for his heart to stutter inside his chest at the same time it swelled, growing so big it spilled outside, like a river running over its banks. He didn’t need to be worried either, did he?

“Of course we are past that,” Tooru said, leaning closer to Shouyou. “Who’s your husband now?”

Shouyou grinned. “You.” 

Tooru nuzzled Shouyou’s cheek, the taste of serum and toner on his lips. “And who’s my husband?”

“Me.” And then he giggled, partially because Tooru had his lips on Shouyou’s ear, where he was ticklish, but also because Tooru could always make Shouyou giggle—something that Tooru took pride in. 

— 

  
  


The journey from the bus stop near his house to Karasuno takes approximately an hour and forty-five minutes. Oikawa hadn’t known that. 

They never took this bus, he and Shouyou. The only time they ever set foot in Miyagi again, together, after everything, was when he was about to formally introduce himself to Hinata Nanami and Natsu. They took a taxi from the airport. It _was_ quite expensive. They had planned to pay Shouyou’s alma mater a visit, but the plan fell through; Nanami-san had summoned a clump of relatives from her side _and_ Shouyou’s late father’s side without their knowing. It turned into a drinking party that persisted into the next day. _It’s because they won’t get to see Shouyou in his wedding suit,_ Nanami-san had wistfully said to him, on that quiet morning. 

So Oikawa never went to Karasuno. 

He knows Karasuno is a small town tucked at the foot of a mountain, with hills and narrow streets. He knows the school has a pretty decent gymnasium that always stayed open late into the night, or even on exam days, all due to the perseverance of an advisor Shouyou had spoken about in reverence. Was it Takeda? Oikawa cannot remember. But that’s about what he knows of Karasuno.

Oikawa pushes his forehead against the bus window, willing the pressure to keep his mind carefully blank. He watches as the white and gray buildings melt into greens and birches; angled to a slope that carries him upwards, somewhere off the beaten track.

Once, Shouyou had said to him: _I’ve always thought I was a son of the mountains_. Oikawa remembers it was a stormy day, when the rain pelted against their bedroom window, their beach trip called off. _But apparently two years in Rio was enough to make me a son of the oceans too_ , Shouyou had continued.

Oikawa had been left a bit confused then—because whenever he tried to picture Shouyou in his mind, he didn’t really see him against the backdrop of the mountains or the oceans. It was always against the open blue sky and the lines of a volleyball net.

But now, as Oikawa sees the winding road that brings him up a mountain, imagining all the touches that Shouyou has left there, and all the touches it has left on Shouyou—he can see Shouyou here too. Or at least he _tries_ to, because he doesn’t want to imagine how he’d feel if he can’t find Shouyou in this place. Dread and desperation almost always come hand in hand, after all. 

As the bus approaches the last stop, Oikawa notices ugly, foreboding clouds that start to obscure the sky above him, making it gray and heavy. Oikawa doesn’t really believe in superstition, and he doesn’t want to start now. But it’s hard to hold his conviction close when he finally gets off the bus and the first drop of rain hits him on the nose. 

“Hell,” Oikawa curses. He feels like crying.

He’s standing on an incline; a row of residences and a couple of vending machines sit before him. He doesn’t even _know_ where he needs to go from here. The droplets start coming down onto the street— _plip, plip, plip._

 _Karasuno is perched at the top of a hill_ , Shouyou’s voice suddenly comes to him. 

Right. Sometimes they talk about this: the memories of their high school days. Though those memories were so far in the past now; his conversations with Shouyou rarely fell into distant nostalgia. Oikawa presses the base of his palms onto his eyes. Remember, remember, what did Shouyou tell him about his high school, again? 

_Karasuno is perched at the top of a hill,_ Shouyou had said. _So after I biked across a mountain I had to climb up_ again _for the last stretch, every morning. The last incline before the school was the worst._

The last incline before the school. Oikawa opens his eyes and looks up to where the hillside starts to curve and slant into its crest. He can’t see anything from this angle; the houses obstructing his view. But there: above some of the roofs, he can see a strip of white concrete. The hint of a looming building. Oikawa clenches his jaw and starts to jog his way up, holding his bag on top of his head as a useless attempt to shield himself from the rain—it’s starting to pour. 

He recalls why he has this conversation burned into his memory now. It was one of those rare moments where Shouyou had tucked himself small into his embrace, feeling not quite homesickness, but something akin to it. That night, into his chest, Shouyou had told him how he loved the undulating landscapes of Karasuno and Rio; how his bike could bring him anywhere he wished. São Paulo was neither of these, an urban jungle with mostly flat surfaces. But they both knew it was a futile kind of wistfulness. They had already rooted their life in that sprawling city, making a home for themselves, and there was no use in yearning for their old homes. Homes always changed shapes in their absence; into sharper edges and odd corners—and so do they, in the absence of those homes; altered into puzzle pieces that would not fit. He and Shouyou know this best.

Right now though, Oikawa feels the most homesick he’s ever been since he was eighteen he feels queasy with it. 

But, the little voice in his head cheekily pipes up, technically he _is_ eighteen. And that’s the heart of the issue, isn’t it? Oikawa wants to laugh; he feels like he’s going insane.

The school building is visible by the time he reaches the hilltop. It’s the generic white, angular building that public schools tend to be styled after. The gate is somehow open—why is it open?—so Oikawa rushes through to take cover under the metal roof of the bike parking lot, though he doesn’t think it matters much anymore. He’s all drenched already, his uniform wet and clinging to his skin.

Oikawa grimaces as he tries to peel the fabric off his stomach—it’s a hopeless case. When he gazes into the leaden sky, there is no hint of it clearing anytime soon. He sighs. At least there doesn’t seem to be any students around, they should still be in their classrooms now—small mercy, he guesses. 

He stalks deeper into the bike rack area to avoid the trickles of the rainfall and randomly picks a bike to sit on. The school buildings are shrouded by the thick shower; there is no use trying to spot anything— _anyone_ —that might look familiar. Oikawa covers his face, trying to even out his breathing: deep inhale, hold it in for seven seconds, slow exhale. Deep inhale again, hold it in for seven seconds, and _exhale like you are tired of my antics,_ Shouyou had laughed, when he was teaching him this breathing technique. 

Oikawa stifles a sob. Where does he even go from here?

He doesn’t even know which class Shouyou was in. He should be a first-year now, right? A child barely graduated from middle school. But still, despite everything, he wants to _believe_ that Shouyou— _his_ Shouyou—is here, somewhere _._ Oikawa has never felt this aimless. Not even during his first few months in San Juan. He has to set a goal for himself; he knows he’d crumble otherwise.

Right. A goal. 

Oikawa puts his hands down and looks around him. Shouyou bikes; he biked to school too. He sees dozens of bike racks in front of him. Shouyou’s bike should be there, somewhere. Would there be any chance of Shouyou putting some kind of an identifier on it? Like a name, perhaps? He can try to find Shouyou’s bike and hunker down nearby until the school’s out, he supposes. There is no harm in trying. It’s either that or sneak his way further into the school ground and risk getting caught by the school guards. 

Oikawa is on his fourth row or bikes—he’s doing it from the innermost rows to the ones near the gate, he deduces Shouyou would come to school early—when someone calls to him, the voice soft and almost beaten by the downpour.

“Aren’t you… Oikawa-san?”

Startled, Oikawa turns around so quickly he almost gives himself a whiplash. He scans through the bike racks only to find no one there, until he realises that the voice comes from _outside_ of the roofed area. He shifts his gaze sideways. 

There’s a man standing under an umbrella. He stands not too far from the bike racks, but enough to give Oikawa a chance to take him in. He’s a man of small stature, with mussed hair and the grace of a teacher, but none of the imposing presence. He looks shy of thirty; a pair of horned glasses sit low on his nose. 

“You’re Oikawa-san from Aoba Johsai, right?” the man asks. There is no indictment in his voice, only polite confusion.

“Do I know you?” Oikawa asks back. 

The man raises his eyebrows, surprise on his face. 

Ah—fuck. He _looks eighteen_ right now. Probably looking like a wet mouse in a school uniform. “I mean,” Oikawa tries to correct. “How do you—uh, know me?”

“I guess it’s _been_ almost a month since the qualifier,” he says with a smile as he approaches Oikawa. He holds out his hand, right below the edge of the roof. “I’m Takeda Ittetsu, the faculty advisor for the Karasuno High School volleyball team?” 

“Oh,” Oikawa says, and then, “OH—” he says again, as the realisation starts to dawn on him. He scrambles his way to Takeda like a newborn fawn, almost tripping himself on one of the bikes. He takes Takeda’s offered hand into a tight clasp, and he says in a frenzy, almost a shout, “Do you know where Shouyou is?” 

“I’m sorry? Shouyou— as in Hinata-kun?”

Oikawa can see the bewilderment in Takeda’s eyes. A frazzled senior from a rival school frantically searching for his fresh new player doesn’t make for a good look, a little part of Oikawa’s mind says.

“Y— Yeah. Hinata. I’m looking for Hinata.” Oikawa wills himself back into composure. But he _can’t—_ not entirely. His heart is pounding hard and loud, he almost misses what Takeda says next. 

“Is there… any problem with Hinata?” He asks in a careful tone that says _did my student get into trouble with you?_

“No, _none._ None at all.” 

“So I guess— were you two planning to meet?” 

Oikawa nods his head so fast he feels a bit woozy from it; he needs to bite what’s been offered to him. “Yeah, see, we promised to meet here, but my phone died!” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, wiggling it for a show. Like some kind of a cosmic joke, right at that moment, his phone lights up with a notification. 

“Uh, see, this is— _huh,_ that’s— weird."

"Indeed," Takeda smiles, more curious than accusing. "Hinata-kun just told me earlier he was waiting for Kageyama."

Oikawa is trying to come up with some response when Takeda raises his umbrella, gesturing for Oikawa to come underneath. Oikawa won't look a gift horse in the mouth, so he does, hunching himself to Takeda's height. 

"Today is Karasuno's last day of exams," Takeda says equitably. He steps over a puddle, walking Oikawa towards one of the larger buildings in the complex. "Everyone should come out of their exams soon. But Hinata-kun had finished a bit faster. He just came to me to ask for the gym keys earlier."

Oikawa feels his heart twist. "That sounds just like him," he says, sounding more wistful than he would like. 

"I didn't know you two are close." 

"I— yeah. Kind of." 

Takeda chuckles. "Wouldn't bet otherwise, seeing that you took a two-hour trip up here under this kind of rain."

At this point in his life—his _actual_ life—Oikawa doesn't know what he wouldn't do for his husband. Though—he doesn’t even know if his husband is _here_ for Oikawa to do anything for. His heart aches, down to the marrow of his bones. 

“Losing to you guys was hard for them, you know,” Takeda says, interrupting Oikawa’s spoiling thoughts; the sound of the rain beating down the umbrella loud above them. “But I think it was ultimately a good experience for everyone,” he smiles at Oikawa, “and you too, I am sorry for your loss. But I hope it was a great game.”

Oikawa blanks out for entirely too long before he stiffly answers, “Yeah. Thank you.” Takeda is talking about the Inter-High Qualifier. That feels like centuries ago.

Takeda brings him round a corner before they finally arrive at a cloister that connects to a gym building. And there, as they stand under the roof and the rain doesn’t sound as deafening anymore, Oikawa can hear the distant thumps of volleyball against the court floor. His pulse halts for a fraction of a second—then it lurches into an erratic beat.

“Kageyama usually only comes out last minute,” says Takeda, as he closes the umbrella, “but you can find Hina—” but Oikawa can’t hear him anymore, because he has finally gathered enough courage to direct his gaze into the gymnasium door, and his heartbeat drums even faster as he finds it slightly opened, and there, through that narrow crack of the double door: he sees a familiar flash of orange hair.

“Takeda-san,” he says. His voice is much more still than how he currently feels. 

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but— could you let me talk to Sho— to Hinata? Alone?” Because Oikawa doesn’t know what answer lies behind that door, but he knows he doesn’t want to have a breakdown in front of a stranger. 

Takeda slowly blinks and levels his eyes on him, observing; they feel too knowing, Oikawa immediately cuts his gaze away. He twists his fingers—they’re cold. He didn’t realise how cold he is. There is a constant _thump-thump-thump_ from inside of the gymnasium, or perhaps it’s just his heart. 

“Oikawa-san.” Takeda reaches out and holds Oikawa’s shoulder. “Will _you_ be okay?”

Oikawa almost bursts into manic laughter. Takeda tightens his hold. Oikawa thinks, detachedly, it feels pretty funny to be treated like a young student again—not even Jose does this to him, they’ve grown more into friends and colleagues throughout the years. Oikawa absently nods; what else can he do? “I’ll be fine,” he lies. 

He releases Oikawa’s shoulder, slow, then pats him with such firmness that Oikawa wouldn’t have expected from Takeda’s soft demeanour. “I don’t know what happened, but I hope you’ll be able to sort it all out.”

Oikawa nods again; _thank you, I hope so too._

As he watches Takeda wave him goodbye, his figure disappearing back into the drape of the downpour, Oikawa tries to breathe: Deep inhale. Hold it in for seven seconds. Exhale. Deep inhale— 

Oikawa turns onto that steel double door. He pushes his legs, ascending the stairs, until he stands before it. The volleyball thumps loudly in front of him, ringing like the knocks of a gavel before the judge announces his ruling: will he find what he wants there, or is he truly, _truly_ alone here.

Oikawa slowly exhales, pushes the door open, and Hinata Shouyou turns to him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Si te lastimé, lo lamento mucho = If I hurt you, I’m very sorry
> 
> I was informed by my Argentinian friend that usually you only use “lamento” when it’s 1) directed towards another person (like offering a condolences) or 2) you don’t really mean you’re sorry/you don’t want to take the blame lmao
> 
> Bueno, bueno, fue mi culpa. Perdón = Fine, fine, it was my fault. I am sorry (a more sincere sorry).


	2. questions and lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a pretty hefty chapter, but also they're all the meat of the story... Take a break between sections if you want to... Drink water. Touch some grass. 
> 
> I hope you'll be able to enjoy the ride! ;;

###  **2028**

Tooru pressed the doorbell. 

He could hear the ugly _ding-dong_ from inside of Shouyou’s apartment—and then silence. He’d already told Shouyou to change his apartment’s doorbell ringer too many times, he had simply given up on it. He pressed the doorbell again. 

Tooru tapped his foot, his legs jittery with tension. He could feel the buzz on his skin crawling upwards, grabbing him by the neck, strangling his windpipe. He needed to breathe. He inhaled a big gust of air, almost choking on it, and blew it in one heavy breath. 

There were some clatters. Then the pitter-patter of someone pottering closer to the door. “Ja vai!” He could hear Shouyou say. 

Shouyou opened the door in a loose black tank top and knee-length shorts; his hair was dripping wet, lemon fragrance wafting off him. 

“Tooru-sa—” Before Shouyou could finish his name, Tooru pounced on him. 

The kiss was frantic, more teeth than Tooru would like, but he was too distrait by the nerves roiling between his ears to care. He crowded Shouyou into the apartment and Shouyou had to grab his arms to keep his balance. He was kissing Tooru back; not with as much heat, but enough to allow him to continue. 

Tooru closed the door behind him with his foot. He distractedly toed his shoes off while angling Shouyou’s face so he could swipe his tongue in; Shouyou hummed, licking the inside of Tooru’s mouth in answer—he was trying to slow the kiss down. Right now Tooru was not about that though, so he pressed forward, a bit forceful, and Shouyou made a low, questioning noise from the back of his throat as Tooru pushed them further into the apartment. 

He’d visited Shouyou’s place enough times now, he could navigate himself to the couch even with his eyes closed. He held Shouyou tight, their lips wet and their tongues intertwined. A stray shoe almost toppled them over, but Tooru managed to catch Shouyou by the hip first, making it easier for Tooru to manhandle him until they landed in a heap on the couch.

“Tooru-san,” Shouyou gasped below him.

“Shouyou, fuck me.”

“What?”

Tooru unfastened the belt on his pants. “Fuck me.” 

“What, Tooru-sa—”

Tooru silenced Shouyou by way of a smothering kiss, his hand fishing a pack of travel lube out of his back pocket. Shouyou groaned into his mouth—a protest—and he grabbed Tooru’s jaw, sternly tearing their faces apart; a whimper escaped Tooru’s lips at the loss of contact. 

“ _Tooru-san_ ,” Shouyou panted, a rumble of a growl thready as he spoke. “Talk to me,” he said. He kept Tooru’s face at a distance, holding Tooru’s jaw so tightly it almost hurt.

Tooru huffed, "There is nothing to talk about."

"Ah-ah," Shouyou tutted. He shook Tooru's head, forcing Tooru to meet his gaze, and he said, "I am not going to fuck your problems away. We are not doing this again."

There was steel in Shouyou’s eyes. They had been in a relationship for a little more than a year now, Tooru knew Shouyou would not budge when he was already like this, all strong-jawed and intent gaze. It promptly knocked the fight out of Tooru, his nerves yawning into the air.

“It’s not _really_ a problem,” Tooru sighed. “No, really. I promise,” he added, when he saw Shouyou’s narrow look. 

Shouyou drew him closer, his eyes searching into Tooru’s. “Should I be worried?”

Shouyou’s question did not sound like a concern. It sounded more like a candid curiosity that felt so jerkishly _Shouyou,_ Tooru could feel the last of tensions on his face melted into a fond smile. 

“No,” Tooru answered. “At least not now. Perhaps later. Right now I just want to be held by you.” Tooru slumped himself into Shouyou, and he pleaded. “Please?” 

Shouyou held his eyes on Tooru’s for a moment longer until he seemed to be satisfied with what he found there. He exhaled a quiet sigh and then gently beckoned, “Come here.” He tucked Tooru’s face into his shoulder, close and snug, so Tooru could only see the cream of his couch and the tan of his skin. 

Shouyou said, “Hand me the lube.” Tooru did.

Shouyou opened him up with adoring fingers, slow and heedful, until the tautness in Tooru’s bones became pleasure instead. Shouyou’s lips were sweet—in his kisses and in his hushed moans, in his murmurs on the leaf of Tooru’s ear—but his hands were rough, and his thrusts remorseless; just like how Tooru needed it.

They ended up in a sweaty sprawl across the couch, Tooru’s toes hanging off of it. Shouyou was gingerly wiping down his release—from Tooru’s back, because Shouyou’s tank top was a lost cause—when he finally asked, “What brings you here?”

“I can’t give my boyfriend a surprise visit without having a special reason?” Tooru said into Shouyou’s left tit.

Shouyou tugged his ear. Tooru pouted, though Shouyou’s chest was his only audience.

“Well, first of all. I missed you.”

Shouyou threw the tissues he used for the clean up into the bin behind him and tugged _both_ of Tooru’s ears. “I missed you too, Tooru-san. Now fess up.”

Tooru dragged himself up with a sullen whine, making himself home in the crook of Shouyou’s neck again, and Shouyou patted down his head, carding his fingers through Tooru’s hair, as if Tooru was a kid with a skinned knee ready for bedtime. Tooru secretly loved it whenever he did that.

“Second of all,” Tooru continued. “I was just really horny.”

Tooru could almost hear the roll of Shouyou’s eyes, but he kept silent, waiting for him to continue.

“And third of all,” Tooru said, after a long while. He burrowed his face further, wishing he could just meld their skin together so he did not need to resurface. “The names for the Olympics team are out.” 

The muscles under his fingers tensed. "And how is it?" Shouyou asked, careful. 

Tooru couldn’t help but grin, just a little. "I'm the oldest player on the team."

“Tooru-san!” Shouyou rose to sit so abruptly Tooru fell face-first into the couch. “Congratulations! I knew you would make it,” he cheered, and then he pulled Tooru up, both of his hands cradling Tooru’s jaw, and said “I,” he kissed Tooru’s left cheek, soft and swift; “am,” this time it was on Tooru’s right cheek, and Tooru felt his face getting warmer, giddy; “really,” his forehead; “proud of you,” and then right on his mouth, a long press of their lips, though Tooru wouldn’t really call it a kiss; Shouyou was too busy smiling.

Once their lips finally parted with a smack, Shouyou said, “I told you, you shouldn’t worry.”

“Usually I would _not_ worry.”

“I know,” Shouyou agreed with a wide grin, touching his forehead against Tooru’s. “But the years haven’t weathered your sets, Tooru-san.”

Tooru knew that best, he worked for it for far too long to admit otherwise. But it was always nice hearing it from Shouyou’s mouth—even though it kind of made it harder for him to bite the bullet and said what he was about to say next.

“And also,” Tooru started. He swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous and feeble. “I’m— thinking about retiring. After.”

Shouyou seemed to still for a moment, but then the curve of his smile softened. “Is that so?”

Tooru hummed.

Tooru was not the first one to retire among their peers, and he definitely would not be the last. This was a thing that kept happening, these days, at their age: familiar faces around them falling away one by one. This time, Tooru decided that it was his turn. 

His confession settled between them like a veil, though the silence wasn’t heavy with it; the air just felt quiet and delicate. Tooru could see the muscles on Shouyou’s jaw working. He seemed to be arguing with himself on whether opening his mouth now would be the right thing to do or not, if Tooru was ready for his questions, so Tooru softly said, “I don’t want to talk about it yet. Not yet.”

Shouyou tried to hide it, but Tooru could hear a sigh of relief leaving his breath as Shouyou said, "Okay." He took Tooru's hand and slowly brought it to his lips for a kiss; tender and somehow suffused with so much affection it left Tooru breathless. "I'll listen, whenever you're ready to talk."

"Yeah,” Tooru rasped. And then, “I'll need to win another Olympics first, you know," he quipped, trying to lighten the mood because _god,_ Shouyou could be really _intense_ sometimes. 

“I won’t make it easy for you, Tooru-san,” Shouyou chuckled, a lopsided grin on his face.

Of course Shouyou wouldn’t. He had always been a formidable opponent, even since— Tooru sat back, suddenly alert. “Wait. Japan already announced the roster too?”

“Well,” Shouyou drawled, his eyes avoiding Tooru’s. “Not… officially.” 

Tooru gasped. “That’s _cheating._ You and your insider friends. Was it that Kozume dude?”

“Is it technically cheating if I was given the information unprompted?” 

“You didn’t tell me!” Tooru felt kind of betrayed.

“Well it wasn’t _official,_ ” Shouyou said. “And also I was waiting for you! So we can celebrate our third Olympics together.”

Tooru didn’t know what to say to that, because Shouyou? Actually being tactful for him? Also he didn’t want to think too hard about how much faith Shouyou had in Tooru being re-recruited into the Olympics line-up; there were only so many feelings he could have for this man in a day.

Shouyou leaned down, eyes all big and sparkly through his eyelashes. “I’m sorry?”

Tooru knew weaponized cuteness when he saw one. But no one said Tooru was a strong man. He groaned into the ceiling and rocked forward, fully intending to smother Shouyou in belligerent kisses, but then he just sort of fell into an empty space. He blinked.

“That’s why, Tooru-san.” Shouyou was already standing next to the couch, pulling his tank top off. Tooru glared at him, somewhat cross at the sudden loss, but also kind of appreciative of the view. “Let’s go celebrate now! My treat, as an apology,” Shouyou said.

“Does it have to be now?” Tooru whined. 

“I just found this restaurant nearby not long ago, you’ll like it Tooru-san,” Shouyou replied, completely ignoring Tooru as he rifled through the clean laundry basket on top of his ottoman. 

“But I want to snuggle for longer,” Tooru said, at the same time his stomach rumbled so loudly it didn’t even fade into a whimper.

Shouyou grinned. “It’s time for dinner already.”

Tooru valiantly tried to conceal his embarrassment, so he scowled. “This restaurant better be a good, expensive one. It’s for _my_ celebration, you know.”

It was a suburban sushi food truck with outdoor seating.

Tooru didn’t know what he was expecting. His experience eating through street food catalogues with Shouyou over the years should have informed him enough. Though when he took a bite with a lot of huffing and puffing, he had to begrudgingly admit that _yes Shouyou, this is fucking good._ Shouyou’s laugh was fond, lucid to Tooru’s ears even among the din of people huddling them to a cramped corner. In the end, they couldn’t really talk much; the crowd was too loud and the servings they ordered kept their mouth busy. But their knees and feet knocked against each other beneath the table, and Shouyou looked pretty under the warm light of the bulb hanging above them. It was a good date. 

They ended up taking two sushi box sets home—still Shouyou’s treat.

When they were on the subway home, Shouyou somehow fell into this contemplative quiet where his eyes bore into his own fists, his lips furrowed—the sort of concentration that intimidated Tooru on the court. Tooru tried to catch his attention by intertwining their fingers, but Shouyou spared him no reaction aside from an absent sidelong glance. If Tooru was younger, he would’ve probably freaked out: _Did I say something wrong? Does he realise he doesn't want me anymore if I’m not on the court after all? Is he disappointed because I am tapping out so early?_

But Tooru was years past that now. He had these thoughts, of course he did, but he smoothed them away, as much as he could. Or he fucked the problems away, whichever worked first— though Shouyou had become smarter about that one, apparently. So he waited. 

It was when they were walking back to Shouyou’s apartment from the station, with Tooru swinging their joint hands back and forth, that Shouyou spoke up.

“I can’t believe we are both going to our third Olympics.”

Tooru chuckled, relief washed over him at Shouyou’s voice. “It just sank in on you?”

“Even the first time still felt like a dream to me,” Shouyou laughed, but it wasn’t self-deprecating.

“Remember when you were in high school?” Tooru placed a flat palm against his waist, approximating Shouyou’s high school height. “You were _soooo_ tiny. Who would’ve thought, huh?” 

Shouyou shoved his shoulder, “I was _not_ that small.”

“Might as well have been.”

Shouyou shoved him harder, their combined giggles pealed at the sleepy street they were at. “Okay,” Shouyou acquiesced, “but you have to admit I was cute back then.”

“Hmmm.” Tooru rubbed his chin, knitting his brows, thinking long and hard. Shouyou could see through his bullshit; he hit Tooru’s thigh with a hostile swing of the plastic bag in his hand.

“Okay,” Tooru yielded with a smirk. “You were cute back then. But you were also annoying.”

“At least I grew out of my annoying phase.”

“That’s what you think.” Tooru pulled their joint hands up and kissed the back of Shouyou’s palm. “You’re still annoying, babe.” 

Shouyou giggled into Tooru’s shoulder, swaying them to the side with his sudden weight. “Well, we are thrice-time Olympian annoying, how about that,” he fondly said.

“The one and only.” Tooru stole a kiss again, this time from the crown of his head. “Just me and you.”

And that comment seemed to sober Shouyou up, because his smile became pensive, and he receded back into silence. Tooru tried to not think too much about it. Because Shouyou would tell him if there was any issue between them. Right? 

When Shouyou spoke up again, it was when they were cutting through a dark, narrow alleyway; a passage that would bring them right to the front of Shouyou’s apartment building with street lamps few and far between. At that moment, Shouyou said:

“I’ll need to pack up for Tokyo after the Superliga season ends next year.”

That stopped Tooru in his tracks. They were standing at a bright pool of yellow, tinted by the glow above them, and when Tooru looked back to see Shouyou, he was gilded by the light: his jaw set and his eyes nervous. 

“Right,” Tooru finally responded. Of course Shouyou would need to go back to Japan, how could he forget? They had been to two Olympics, but this would be the first time they were going to challenge the stage as a pair. They would be on the opposing sides of the court— And sixteen-thousand kilometres away and twelve hours apart. “I’m going to miss you,” he weakly added, because he wasn’t sure where this conversation was going and fear started to clamp its tendrils on him. 

“I’ll miss you too,” Shouyou absently answered. His eyes weren’t really there. Tooru tried to make a tentative smile, but he gave up halfway.

“We—” Tooru began, squeezing Shouyou’s hand. “But we will manage. Right? We’ll figure it out.” He hated how his voice faltered at the end.

Shouyou blinked at him, as though he’d just been woken up; a brief surprise swept across his face. “Yeah. Of course. We always do.” 

“Okay,” Tooru said. “That’s good then.” He nodded to himself, and then he turned back to continue their walk, because he didn’t want to bet on what else Shouyou was about to say to him on this dark alleyway they were in. 

But Shouyou remained in his place, jerking Tooru back as they were still joined by the hands. Tooru, starting to get frustrated, turned to him with a protest ready at the tip of his tongue, but then he saw Shouyou. 

He never saw Shouyou with that kind of expression before.

“Tooru-san,” Shouyou said. “Do you want to marry me?”

They were standing in the middle of a narrow, dusty backstreet of São Paulo, one of many hundreds of them; there was no pretty scenery or jaw-dropping cityscape, not even a proper sight; their surroundings were all pitch-black from the night. Tooru’s clothes still smelled like the airport, and Shouyou was in his sleeping clothes and a pair of ugly orange flip-flops they bought from an overpriced seaside shop in Rio. Tooru could still taste the tang of pickled ginger on his tongue, and he could make out the shape of a large waste bin behind Shouyou’s head, and did he really just hear that correctly? Tooru wanted to scream, _are you serious right now,_ but instead he could hear himself say, wobbly, “Shouyou?”

Shouyou tugged their joined hands and Tooru stumbled his way closer. His eyes couldn’t seem to leave Shouyou’s; all the skittish emotions inscribed in the pinprick of his pupils. 

Shouyou visibly gulped and took a deep breath, like he was getting ready for a match. And then the dam broke. 

“I know— I know you’ll have a lot of changes in your life after this, after the Olympics,” he started. “And you might not want to throw another wrench into that mess but— I really want to be there for you, _next to you,_ through all that. And I’ve been thinking how it’ll be easier for you to find a job here rather than the other way around, since you’re Argentinian, though—”

“Wait, I’m moving to São Paulo?” 

“—though I don’t have the rings right now, because this was completely unplanned.” Shouyou stopped, shook his head a little, and ground on, “I mean— I _did_ plan for this. I _have_ been thinking about this. Just— just not like this. But when I heard you were planning to retire, I thought about how we will then have a chance to move in together, and I just—” 

Shouyou was _rambling._ Tooru stared in wonder. Shouyou was talking himself into a twist, his eyes growing confused by the second. This was a rare glimpse of Shouyou’s awkwardness: the gawky, clumsy way he sometimes carried himself, whenever he was nervous; a wraith of his teenage years. It had become an even rarer sight as Shouyou aged. 

"Shouyou," Tooru interrupted, and Shouyou’s head snapped up, because somewhere along the way he had started to hang his head down Tooru couldn’t even see his eyes. There was a blush on his cheekbones, red and fierce.

Tooru reached up and dragged the pad of his thumb over that blush, mapping the way Shouyou’s face gradually cleared up as he looked into Tooru’s eyes. And then Shouyou exhaled a sigh, or perhaps it was a huff of a laugh. “I’m sorry,” he said, thinly. He took Tooru’s hand into his palm, with the plastic bag knocking against Tooru’s elbow, and he planted a tender kiss there: on the space between the joints of Tooru’s fingers; the kind of kiss that made Tooru’s breath hitch.

Shouyou pressed Tooru’s palm onto his cheek, leaning into it as he led his eyes back to Tooru—and for a moment Tooru thought everything else ceased to exist. 

"Tooru-san,” he said, before determination stole across his face, his shoulders squaring. And then he said, again, "Tooru."

Tooru tried to will his pounding heart to a halt. Because he wanted to hear this loud and clear; wanted to brandish this on the shell of his ears; his heart grew and leapt and cheered, flooding joy into his veins, into his limbs, into his eyes, which was why when Shouyou finally said: 

“Tooru, will you marry me?”

Tooru burst into tears.

Shouyou immediately released his hold, shock coloring his face. He hovered his hands in front of Tooru, all confused. Tooru had let Shouyou see him in a lot of states, dressed or otherwise, but never this: He never cried in front of Shouyou. Like an act of desperation, Shouyou swooped him into a hug. “Tooru-san? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.” 

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

Tooru let out a wet laugh. “Yes, I want to marry you.”

“Oh,” said Shouyou. He tightened his hug. “I love you, Tooru-san.”

“You can drop the ‘san’,” Tooru said, though it almost sounded like a sob. He wrangled himself out of Shouyou’s arms and grabbed Shouyou’s face. He wanted to yell at him, but his mouth could not accommodate his intent, what with it being spread into the widest grin of his life it hurt his cheeks. So instead Tooru said, tremulously, “I can’t _believe_ you did that,” and he seized Shouyou by the lips.

It was messy and filthy, wet from too much spit and Tooru’s tears; it was the best kiss Tooru had ever had. 

“Tooru-sa— Tooru,” Shouyou breathed between their kisses, “we’re, like, five minutes away from my apartment.”

“ _Literally,_ ” Tooru cried. “We are _literally_ five minutes away from your doorstep, and you chose to do it _here?”_

At least Shouyou still had the decency to look sheepish. “I’m sorry?”

And what could Tooru do, seeing Shouyou so bashful after catapulting him to this highest high, but erupt into a gale of laughter? He dragged Shouyou into his embrace, unable to stop his laughs; he felt a bit insane with it. But Shouyou joined him in, tittering while kissing Tooru’s ear, and all things were right with the world.

When they could finally calm down, Shouyou held his hand again and tugged him forward. “Let’s go home,” he said, and Tooru had never felt so loved.

Shouyou had a game the following day, and Tooru had a morning flight back to Buenos Aires—because he really bought the ticket on impulse, and he still had practice, and Shouyou was unforgiving and would chastise him if he skipped a day—so they could not do much that night. 

But they stripped themselves of any threads, so they could lie naked on the bed, sharing warmth and caresses. They ran their fingers across each other’s skin, whispering a piece of their lives into the little space between their lips. Sometimes they would kiss, but it never strayed into heat; just slow and languid, like they were reconfiguring each other through touches alone. If they felt hardness pressing against their stomachs, they elected to ignore it; content to just bask themselves in this renewed intimacy.

Sometime into the night, when nightfall had fully sooted the sky, their whispers started to ebb into deep, steady breaths. Tooru felt his eyes closing, ready for sleep to take him. But then Shouyou stirred in his arms. “Tooru?”

“Yeah?” he said, but it sounded shatteringly too loud in the darkness around them. So he cleared his throat, and he repeated, with a lower voice, “yeah?”

“What does it feel like?”

Tooru almost wanted to joke, _being engaged?_ But then he saw Shouyou’s eyes, big and brown and dimly ashened by the sliver of moonlight that crept through his bedside window. And Tooru understood.

“I have been thinking about this,” he began. He hadn’t, really, at least not in the way he would think about opponent’s weak points or on-court strategies. But this was something that had been in the back of his mind for long; formless, but tangible still. “We’re in our thirties, and it’s— technically we are not _that_ old.”

Shouyou huffed a laugh at that. Because: sure, Tooru might joke about his age a lot. But he knew how olds and bygones _actually_ looked; he’d seen them plenty throughout his career: on the straight shoulders or the vacant looks of his erstwhile teammates. 

“But throughout all these long, long years— it had been an unceasing uphill battle for me. And for you," Tooru added, because they were two kindred souls, he and Shouyou; rooted on the court and nowhere else. “We went away, and up, and all we do now is try to maintain our place there—here, at the top.” He could hear Shouyou’s breath, calm and measured and awake, so he continued. “And it might have been fun, yes, but— Shouyou— Shouyou, _we aren’t high school kids anymore_ , and—” and Tooru choked up a little bit, because he was about to put into words the thing that he had been wanting to hear for himself—but also for Shouyou. “And I think— I think we deserve to be gentle to ourselves now. We earned it.”

It sounded like a lie, coming out of his mouth. But he wanted it to be true. He really did. Because who were they, without the lines of the net and the lines on the court that defined them? He, too, wanted to know the answer to this question.

Shouyou did not respond for a while. Clouds seemed to glide through the sky at that moment, engulfing them back into pitch-black darkness, and that was when Shouyou took Tooru’s hands and drew them close to his lips.

“You are going to move to São Paulo,” he said. “And then you’ll get a job here, something related to volleyball.” His tone was matter-of-fact, steady, as if he was saying _it’s raining, take an umbrella with you,_ and not the bedrock of words that anchored Tooru’s wavering soul here, next to him. Shouyou ran his thumb over the long bones on the back of Tooru’s hand, unhurried, and he said, with certitude, “We will figure it out.”

Tooru blinked the tears out of his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. We always do.”

  
  


— 

  
  


The first thing that Oikawa notices is that he has to adjust his line of sight; slightly tilting his head downwards just so he can see Hinata Shouyou’s face—which is probably a mistake, because as Oikawa chances upon his eyes, those familiar big, brown eyes, Oikawa watches in real-time how they widen in recognition—and nothing else.

There should be no way of truly knowing, in that fraction of second when Hinata Shouyou opens his mouth, chest rising ready for a shout, but Oikawa has studied those eyes for countless nights—and he just _knows._

“The Grand King!?” this Hinata shouts. His voice resonates throughout the vacuum; it bounces off the walls and the floor until it wanes and shrivels along with Oikawa’s hope. 

There is a certain kind of numbness that ripples out starting from your jaw, then through your tightened throat, and then it prickles the tips of your fingers or your toes, as though your blood has given up on running through your veins. Oikawa has experienced it a handful of times throughout his life, but it has never been quite like this: so violent and visceral, he can feel the sickening crawl of his guts. He wants to puke. 

Hinata has both of his fists up, his shoulders hunched like a comic martial stance, but Oikawa isn’t entirely sure; he only sees a glimpse of it through the fringe of his eyes. His head weighs his gaze down onto the floorboards. “Are you okay?” He can hear a voice, ringing and reedy, just a hint of worry there, then he realises that the voice comes from Shouyou— this boy— _Hinata_ , and suddenly he’s aware that the ground is much closer to him than before—he is sitting on the floor. When did his legs decide to give up on him? He can’t feel his limbs, nor his trunk—it’s like he’s sitting to the left of his own body. Oikawa presses his palms against his forehead, trying to remain corporeal, refusing to dissolve in this state—his forehead is cold, but also scorching hot. 

“You’re shivering.”

“What?” Oikawa says through his chattering teeth, eyes on the floor. 

“You’re all wet,” says Hinata. “It’s summer but you still need to change out of your wet clothes, or you’ll get sick. My mom said so.” 

When he and Shouyou had landed in Miyagi, it was winter—Shouyou’s first bone-biting cold after years, and he had to sniffle through his crimson-red nose. The first thing that Nanami-san did upon seeing her son was to bundle him up in the hand-knit scarf from around her own neck. It's a little secret that Oikawa likes to keep to himself; the fact that Shouyou's rare attentiveness is an imprint of his mother's, to some extent—he just hadn't known the seed was already sown when Shouyou was this young. Oikawa sobs a laugh.

“I don’t have anything to change into.” His voice comes out like it scrapes through shards of broken glasses. He clears his throat, swallowing the shards.“I don’t think I brought any.”

“No, see, you have a shirt here.” 

Oikawa blinks and looks up—to his side. Hinata is crouching beside him, already rummaging through Oikawa’s bag—he’s sitting so close, and Oikawa can feel himself pathetically caught by his gravity; the shock of his locks, the crown of his skull—they are something familiar. 

"See?" Hinata crows, pulling up Oikawa's turquoise shirt out of the bag, and this time Oikawa really _looks._

It feels like peering through a mirage, seeing this boy in front of him; the narrow breadth of his shoulders and the youthful curve of his cheeks. Oikawa can see the illusive lines in the air around him, like indentation in the sand, marking where his head should’ve reached, or where his muscles should’ve filled out. 

This Hinata is swimming in his hoodie. 

“Did you come here looking for Kageyama?” Hinata asks, as he shoves the shirt into Oikawa’s lap. 

Oikawa wants to answer, _no,_ but he can’t quite work up the will to move his lips. So he tersely shakes his head. 

Hinata lets out an inquisitive hum, his eyes glued to the volleyball he’s rolling between his hands—left, to right, to left. As Oikawa peels his wet shirt off, from the corner of his eye, he watches Hinata make a pitiful attempt to stop himself from squirming—the boy almost vibrates out of his skin. His lips furrow into a tense pout. This is one of the first physical tics that Oikawa learned to read off Hinata Shouyou, long before their relationship even began to take shape, under the shades of those palm trees in Rio. 

Oikawa wants to call _Shouyou,_ but he stops short. How did he even refer to him again, back then? Before Oikawa started calling him by his name? _Chibi-chan._ He tries to roll the nickname off his tongue—but it just leaves him tongue-tied. The absence of that nickname from his lips is almost as old as the boy crouching in front of him—it’s been fourteen years. This realisation strikes like a discordant note, rolling uncomfortably in his stomach. He can’t draw the name out of his throat, so instead he calls, “Hey.” Hinata glances up at him, glimmering eyes through his eyelashes. “What are you thinking? Out with it,” Oikawa says.

“Would you toss for me!?” Hinata bursts out. “Like, now? After you finish changing? Or maybe after you stop shivering?” His entire body bobs about, and then, as if he just realised that Oikawa is an upperclassman, he adds, “Please?”

“I—” Oikawa is not sure how to respond. Can he laugh? Does he have the energy to laugh? Hinata’s nostrils flare with such palpable excitement, it’s almost disarming. The Shouyou in his time—and Oikawa worries that he might be really going mental for this; _‘in his time’, what the fuck—_ usually would lob a ball over to him, then he would say, _Tooru, toss for me._

Constantly comparing this child to your thirty-four years old husband might not be the best kind of coping mechanism, the thin thread of sanity that’s keeping Oikawa’s brain from collapsing tells him. Oikawa wishes it would just shut up. Tricenarian wisdom be damned. The sudden spark of annoyance pushes him to say, out of pure impulse, “No.” 

“Nooo?” Hinata drags the word, his shoulders gradually sagging, as if he half-expects Oikawa to change his mind at the end of his breath. Oikawa didn’t know it was possible for a person to visibly wilt like this, face and body both; it almost tugs the corners of his lips. “Look, I don’t know what brought you here,” Hinata flaps his hands, “but when else am I gonna have the chance to try spiking your sets? Pleaseeee Grand King, before Kageyama comes.”

Oikawa starts at the mention of that name _—Grand King—_ its crude detachment only assails him now. And then— _Kageyama._ Tobio is coming. He feels lightheaded—god, perhaps he _is_ becoming sick. The last thing he wants to add into his burgeoning list of concerns right now is another sulky teenaged version of people he knows—or _anyone_ for that matter. He wants to be with Shouyou—with this Hinata—for longer. Just a little more time, to gather all the floating thoughts in his brain and put them back in place. 

There is no sign of surrender as Hinata holds his gaze, and his heart spasms at the sight. He thinks: this might not be his Shouyou, but he _knows_ Shouyou. Intent eyes, strong jaw; he knows this face.

“Can we just go somewhere else for now?” he tries. 

“What? But the volleyball net is _here.”_

Oikawa should have more bargaining chips in his position, but his mind draws on a blank. He worries his lips, trying to come up with something, _anything—_ then his stomach blares a convenient answer for him; it growls. Loud. 

“I skipped my breakfast,” Oikawa reasons, the tips of his ears warm. “Take me somewhere to eat first, then I’ll toss for you.” 

“For real?” Hinata jumps to a stand—he jumps _high_ even at this age. “Let’s go then!” He bounces in place, buzzing like he’s got ants in his pants. 

“Oh, but,” Oikawa feels himself deflating, “the rain.”

“No, see, you got lucky,” Hinata grins. He then skitters towards the gymnasium door, and he pulls it open. “The rain’s just stopped.” 

And it has. 

Oikawa pushes to a stand and looks outside. It is still considerably dark, but the sky doesn’t look as angry anymore. The curtain of water has been let up, leaving the ground damp and bare of dust. Hinata turns to him from the door, and he beams a glowing smile, his eyes crinkled close, and he says, “Let’s go.”

Oikawa has always been weak whenever Shouyou does that. Apparently it’s a chronic condition, besetting him even when Shouyou is half his usual size—and half his actual age. Oikawa mildly thinks perhaps the condition is terminal. He rubs his face and shakes his head, quelling any further thoughts about Shouyou. Shouyou is not here—and he won’t be here for years to come. And—his breath hitches—the sudden horror swamps him like a flash flood: He is the only person who will remember _his_ Shouyou in this place. And _anything of his life_ for that matter. 

And Oh—Oh he's sinking again, his mind drifting afloat—his breaths seem to come and go from a distant place, while his vision gets darker as he pushes the heel of his palms against his eyes—it's like he just got swept away into a deep well, stuck at the bottom, and—

—and then he feels a tug on his dry shirt. 

Oikawa opens his eyes. He sees a fist. It’s small, even smaller than he remembers, bunching up his shirt in a strong grip. He follows the blue vein faintly visible on that fist, upwards, until it meets the faded white of a hoodie, wrapped around a lean arm, up, until he sees Hinata again.

Hinata looks pinched. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

Oikawa lets out a tight laugh. It sounds rueful even to his ears. Hinata cocks his head at him, his face a mixture of annoyance and curiosity, as though he's about to say, _what is it now, Tooru?_

But of course he doesn't. Instead, he says, “Are we waiting for Kageyama?” 

“No, we aren’t,” Oikawa rasps. He wraps his hands on Hinata’s shoulder—it’s startling how bony and slender they are in his hands—and pushes him forward, leading them out of the stuffy gym. “You should bring me to the best Karasuno can offer, while I’m here.” 

“Nothing’s open at this hour though.”

“Nothing? But it’s—” Oikawa checks on his wristwatch, “it’s almost 11?”

“Everything opens at 11.30 in Karasuno!” Hinata chirps. He jumps across a large puddle, walks through the soggy soil with little skips in his steps. “But I know a place! Follow me.” 

And of course Oikawa does. They weave through the school ground, veering around any small pond of water, or, in Hinata's case, making them into a long-jump challenge like it’s a sports festival. Oikawa's eyes are moored to the way Hinata’s hair fluffs up every time he springs—partially spellbound, and partially trying not to think about how his Shouyou never wears his hair this long anymore. 

He wonders if Hinata would cut his hair short if Oikawa asks him to? 

There are seven stages of grief and apparently Oikawa has barrelled through the first four steps all the way to the Bargaining stage within the last fifteen minutes. He doesn’t know if this is a fortunate thing or just him disassociating. 

As they exit the school gate, Hinata swivels left, towards the slope that brought Oikawa here earlier. The concrete road has a darker hue now, the summer rain absorbed into its asphalt, and the sky isn’t helping its case; still mired with dense, dark clouds that press down onto the ground. But there are some punctures here and there in the clouds; pierced by the sun, dappling leaves of light underfoot. 

Oikawa is tracing those dapples with his eyes when he takes notice of Hinata—who is bounding forward by jumping from one point to another instead of walking like a normal human being.

“What are you doing?” he asks, though he has a hunch. He’s been fifteen too.

“Not touching the ground, duh?” Hinata answers. He has his arms spread wide, balancing himself on top of a small bright spot on one foot, before he leaps into its nearest neighbor.

“You’ll injure yourself like that.”

Hinata gives him a blithe “psst” and waves his hand. And then he makes another leap, this time further than his previous jump, only to land on the ball of his foot; he has to whirl his arms to keep his balance.

Oikawa almost has his heart damn leapt out just from seeing how careless Hinata is, a pang of exasperation he’d usually felt when he sees _his_ students doing stupid things. Sports journalists used to liken Shouyou to nocturnal predators—steady on his feet, sneaky strikes like a bolt. This Hinata—he’s a woodland critter. Oikawa tries to bite down his sigh.

“I warned you,” says Oikawa.

“Look, I’m still in the clear!” Hinata points at the small leaf of light he’s tiptoeing at. 

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, no, see, I started the game, so I gotta commit.”

Oikawa is ready to throw more reproaches, all the stern talking he’s sponged up from his months coaching a high school team—but then Hinata angles his body sideways. And for the first time since they departed from the gym—Oikawa can see his face again. There is the scrunch on his nose, and the concentration in his eyes; carved in a manner that he’s learned to read off Hinata Shouyou’s many physical tics. Unbidden, he again thinks, with fondness, _I also know this face._

There is something that feels alien happening on Oikawa’s face. Then he realises he’s smiling. 

And that’s just the funny thing isn’t it? He’s been combing through all the strands that make the boy in front of him, cataloguing all the frays and defects that leave him rankled—not unlike what he always did to himself on the court since he was Hinata's age. He knows better now; he’s being unfair. To himself back then, and to this Hinata now. _Be gentle,_ he had said to himself and Shouyou.

It is probably that thought that prods him forward. He walks up to Hinata and catches him by his hand; it’s small and easily tucked inside Oikawa’s own. “You’ll seriously injure yourself like this,” he says. And then he remembers the one surefire way to convince Shouyou out of something, so he adds, “You don’t want to get benched for something so silly, do you?”

“Well, of course not, buuut,” Hinata grumbles. But he doesn’t withdraw his hand. 

They walk down the incline like that, hand in hand. Oikawa feels silly; it feels like he’s walking a kid to a daycare, except the kid is his supposed-to-be husband and the world is upside down. But he hadn’t realised he needed this: the warmth of Hinata’s skin in his hold. It keeps him from drifting away, the last tangible piece that he needed to convince himself that this, _this is real,_ for ill or good.

The stretching silence between them gives way for dread to creep back in, clawing its nails up his throat, and Oikawa is honestly sick of it. He has to cut the silence; to dispel or distract, whichever works first. But— what should he talk about again? With Shouyou, it was about their matches, or teammates, or series they were going to watch to while their off-days away. How does he even talk— 

“Are you finished with your exams too, Grand King?”

—Right. High school kids. They talk about _school._

“I… don’t know.”

“You _don’t know?_ ” Hinata turns to him, the disbelief in his face almost pulls a grin out of Oikawa. 

“I don’t really care about school.” Which is true, in all senses. 

Hinata frowns at his feet. “I’ve always thought you were some kind of a genius in school or something.” 

Oikawa blinks. This isn’t something Shouyou has ever told him before. “And why is that?” He tries for teasing, but it comes out more baffled. 

“Well, it’s ‘cause you, you know,” Hinata makes a vague gesture above his head, “you’re _Grand King._ ” 

It is entirely nonsensical, Oikawa doesn’t know how to respond. But one thing that catches him—”Don’t call me that.”

“What, Grand King?”

He gives a curt nod. “Try calling me by my name?”

“Your name, like—” Hinata’s voice arcs up, dragging Oikawa’s gaze towards him, and Hinata _sputters_ with a blush dusting his cheeks, “like— Oikawa-san?” 

And _oh._ It just occurs to him now; you don't normally just let someone hold your hand walking down the street, do you? Oikawa stares at Hinata, who's squirming again, but for a seemingly different reason now, and Oikawa is so— _amused._ As amused as one would feel gawking at a newly born baby panda—though he guesses in this case it's a baby gay. 

That pulls a sudden laugh out of him—he almost forgot how his own laugh sounded, ringing through the rain-sodden air around them—and he ruffles Hinata's hair. "Yeah, like that," he coos.

The Shouyou that he met in Rio back then, just a little bit older than this boy now, was already a man comfortable in his own skin. Oikawa has never seen him up-close like this, with the nervous energy of a child jittering through his small figure. And that's also an issue he has to deal with, isn't it? If this is the life that he has to rehash now—he squeezes Hinata's hand, an anchor, not letting his mind drift further—he still has a lot of things to do. For himself, his volleyball career. And so does this Hinata. 

_Just a little more time,_ he pleads to himself. _Just a little more time to drink in his presence beside me._

When Hinata stops walking and tugs their joined hands, he tugs Oikawa back along with it. He looks up at him, a boyish grin on his face and only little remnants of a blush on his nose. "We're here," he announces. 

They are standing at the base of the hill, right next to the vending machines that Oikawa saw the first time he set foot here. He just realises that the machines are placed right in front of a store. There’s a name written on the board: _Sakanoshita Store._

The name pulls something from the back of his mind, a faint memory. 

"Is this the store with the delicious meat buns?" 

Hinata gapes at him. "How do you even know that?" 

He can't possibly answer with ‘ _you always told me about it whenever we bought buns from the shop next door’,_ so he keeps mum. Hinata's the one who provides an excuse.

"Sakanoshita's meat buns are famous _in Sendai!?"_

Oikawa just sagely nods. "Yyeap."

"That's _soooooo_ cool!"

Hinata practically drags him into the store, prattling off about all the meat buns he’s tasted from around the prefecture, and how Sakanoshita’s remain undefeated, and how the shop is actually manned by their coach, but their coach is not here today, and—

—and his rambling swaddles Oikawa with ease; Oikawa just needs to entertain him with the occasional _hmm_ and _aah_ for him to continue. Hinata only halts when he stuffs his mouth with the buns Oikawa buys for the both of them, busy chewing with his cheeks full, while they stand in front of the store. 

Oikawa thinks the meat buns near their home in São Paulo are better.

It’s when Hinata’s bun is already halfway eaten that he gets a text message. “It’s Kageyama,” he says. “He’s asking where I am. Should we tell him you’re—”

“Don’t.” 

His cutting tone makes Hinata jump a little, and when Hinata looks up, he seems ready to object, or question—but then his eyebrows arch up upon taking in Oikawa’s face. “Okay,” he relents, “I’ll just tell him to go home then.” He taps the message into his phone, then he says, “You _really_ didn’t come here for Kageyama, huh?”

“No,” Oikawa mutters. And perhaps it’s the exhaustion in his veins that makes him continue and confess, “I was looking for you.” An honest truth but also a lie. 

He half-expects Hinata to be bemused, or perhaps blush, but no; Hinata rears back and his face sharpens into a suspicious glare. “Are you _spying_ on us!?” 

Oikawa’s mind can’t quite catch up with the conversation. “Spying for what?” 

And that seems to be a wrong answer, because Hinata bristles at him. “Just so you know,” he jabs a finger on Oikawa’s chest, which almost sends Oikawa into stitches again because Hinata looks like an angry squirrel like this, “I’m already stronger than I was during our last match!”

“Okay?” Oikawa tentatively grins, swatting Hinata’s hand from his chest. “I believe you,” he says, though Hinata doesn’t quite buy it, judging from the way he rips another bite from his meat bun.

Oikawa recalls the first time he met this Hinata Shouyou. It was at Aoba Johsai’s stale school gymnasium. Hinata could barely spike with his eyes open back then. In a few years though, he would sail up the volleyball net, governing the air like he’s floating, ready to kill the ball with ravenous eyes. The thought brings a smile to his face—though he knows it’s a misplaced pride. He doubts this Hinata would be able to imagine what he’ll become just yet.

“What are you planning to do after high school?” Oikawa asks, out of plain curiosity rather than a test. 

Hinata quirks an eyebrow at his non sequitur. “I dunno.” 

“Nothing at all?” 

“That’s still sooooo far in the future though?” 

Oikawa drums his fingers on the store window he’s leaning at. _Boy, does he know anything about being far in the future._ “It’s not that far,” he says. “It’s only two years from now.”

“Okay, but that’s _two whole years._ That’s far.” Hinata stresses his statement by tearing what little bun he has left into two and waggles them at Oikawa’s face. 

“It’s not far,” Oikawa maintains. And irritation abruptly smoulders beneath his ribs, fanned by the slight petulance he can’t quite shake off even in his age. He tacks on, “Far in the future is when you can’t even play on the court anymore.” 

“Well that’s _too_ far.” Hinata frowns, the last of his bun in his mouth. 

And— This is something he hasn’t even asked _his_ Shouyou. And he knows the answer he’ll get is not a proper proxy as to how Shouyou actually feels, but curiosity gets the better of him. “But then— what would you do then?” Oikawa licks his lips. “What would you do, when you can’t stand on the court anymore?”

Hinata’s frown goes deeper. “That’d be annoying. Super mega annoying.”

“Yeah.” 

Hinata hums, folds his arms, looks up to the sky, like the answer would simply fall onto him. When Hinata finally speaks up, he asks, “But I can still play volleyball?”

His throat feels all dried up. “Yeah.”

“Then I guess I’ll be pretty sad,” Hinata says, as he throws the bun’s paper wrapper into the nearest bin—perfect arc, and score—then he turns to Oikawa; his eyes clear and still like a mountain lake. “But then I’ll just drag Kageyama to set for me in my backyard or something.” 

Oikawa is stunned for a beat and— and the laughter that bursts out of him is unbridled. It’s a little wild on the edges and it bends him down into two. Hinata can only stare at him, befuddled.

He and Shouyou talked a lot, on every sleepless night after he announced his retirement; of course they did. How did Shouyou always put it? _You’ve done enough, you’ve left the court, but it’s not like volleyball left you,_ Shouyou had said, with the same steadfast lilt from the night he proposed to him _._ And Oikawa might have put a lot of his worries to rest as they tied the knot, sure, but _god,_ it feels rewarding to hear _this_ Hinata, small and skittish, answering him with the exact same conviction. 

It wasn’t lip service; this is just who Hinata Shouyou is.

Hinata hunches his shoulders, looking embarrassed for whatever reason. “Gre— Oikawa-san, you’re being _really weird.”_

“No, I’m sorry,” Oikawa gasps. He tries to control his breath, simmering down. 

“Are you done now?” Hinata nags. “‘Cause you still owe me a toss. Or a dozen.”

“Alright, alright.” He straightens up, grinning his most genuine grin today. “Let’s go, then.”

Oikawa has to bite his lips to suppress another chuckle as Hinata turns back with a humph, stomping his way forward. They climb back up in silence, mostly because Hinata is stewing in his embarrassment, his cheeks and ears boiled red still. Oikawa would’ve felt more sorry if he wasn’t lost in his own thoughts. 

He remembers—during those nights, whenever he needed Shouyou to hold his hands, and repeat the words he needed to hear—Shouyou always ended his reassurance with a soft _and neither will I leave you,_ whispered into his ears. It was a promise—and it seems to be one that Oikawa can’t hold from his end.

Oikawa glances up, and he sees the sky has cleared up. He doesn’t believe in superstition, and he doesn’t want to start now. But the open blue sky stares down at him, and he wonders what foretells rest there; if they point to the future laid out fresh in front of him, or the future he’s longing for— _his home._

  
  


— 

###  **2027**

  
  


The ball came to him in a perfect arc, right onto the tip of his fingers, and Tooru pushed it back into the air. He saw it float by its lonesome in the moonlight, seemingly suspended in time—until Shouyou soared into the air and swung his arm; a thundering slam, a whip crack. And then the ball was already at the opposite end of the court, airborne by the rebound. The echoes of his spike rippled through the empty stadium, sweeping through the barren bleachers. 

“That one felt nice, Oikawa-san!” Shouyou whooped, swinging sideways to Tooru with a lifted hand.

Tooru gave him five, and before their hands could part, he twined their fingers—gripping it tight. “Did your vertical get _higher?”_

Shouyou cracked a lopsided grin—and Tooru was still not quite used to this, how Shouyou’s smiles were adorned with lithe arrogance now that he was as much a seasoned player as he was renowned—and he said, “I knew you’d notice, Oikawa-san.” 

“I can’t believe you,” Tooru laughed. “When are you even planning to _stop.”_

“You’ve heard about Ogasawara-kun.” His grin grew wolfish as he looked down, unfolding Tooru’s fingers from his one by one. “The next Japanese star player in Superliga, they say.” The pale light spilling from the ceiling glimmered through his eyelashes, the shadow of each strand dancing on Tooru’s palm. When Shouyou glanced up again, he rid the shadows along with it, instead Tooru could see his eyes: aflame and fierce and positively captivating. “Well, _I’m_ still here, so they better not give him the title yet.”

Shouyou would be the death of him. “Not stopping anytime soon, then.”

“Nope, I don’t think I will,” Shouyou snickered, “and it’s not like you will either.” The criss-cross of the net was cast onto his face, framing the handsome curl of his lips. “I _am_ stopping for tonight, though.”

Tooru wanted to trail those mesh of shadows with kisses, to take those lips between his own—but he couldn’t. Not here. “Already, Shouyou?” 

Shouyou turned back and waved his hand, “My physical therapist told me not to overexert my shoulders too much,” he said. There was a subtle limp to his gait as he walked towards the bench on the side of the court, and Tooru couldn’t help but regard it with a smug sort of pride. 

The heat between them had always been reserved for solely two settings: on-court matches or their bedrooms—or living rooms or bathrooms—but never outside. Not outside. A line silently drawn in the sand, a veneer of deniability, so whenever their teammates asked, they could answer with _no, we’re not together like that._ Because they really were not. But at least Tooru got this: the limp and the bruises; sheer proof that he’d fucked Shouyou silly just earlier.

“Why did you bring me here, then?” Tooru asked, trailing after Shouyou a few steps behind.

“Since you’re here, and I have the key to the staff entrance.” Shouyou plopped down onto the bench and lifted the ring of keys he placed there—most likely a result of his badgering some poor ASAS São Paulo staff that wasn’t immune to his charm. “And I doubt you could see my jump well enough yesterday.”

“So we’re here now because you wanted to _show off?”_

“You could say that.” Shouyou grinned wider, a little mischievous. “Though I guess it wasn’t necessary anymore, since I beat you pretty badly.”

“Yesterday was an _exhibition match,”_ Tooru said. He sat next to Shouyou and jabbed his side; Shouyou deftly avoided it with a small giggle. “And I only played _half_ of the match.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Shouyou sang, and that honestly warranted a good whack, so Tooru did, right on the curve of his arm. 

Shouyou’s laugh was rich, and warm, and it seared through the darkness around them with luster. This was one of Tooru’s favorite things: whenever the upturn of Shouyou’s lips climbed onto his cheekbones, knitted his eyes into pretty crescents. 

Tooru had a lot of favorite things. A list of which had been exponentially growing ever since he transferred to Buenos Aires. If it coincided with the growing frequency of him and Shouyou visiting each other during long weekends—it was totally beside the point.

“Do you want to go back to your hotel? Or my apartment?” Shouyou asked. He bent down to untie his shoes—he really brought along his sports shoes just to make Tooru set him a few balls so he could flaunt his jump. Hinata Shouyou, thirty-one years old, was still as unfathomable a creature as he was nineteen.

“Whichever’s fine for me,” Tooru mumbled. And then just a little, very subtly, he leaned back on his hands. Observing Shouyou’s back. 

His own name was stretched between Shouyou’s shoulder blades; white block letters over light blue. Shouyou showing up in front of his hotel room in Tooru’s old uniform might or might not have increased the list of Tooru’s favorite things by one. Shouyou though, the perceptive little bastard, tilted his face sideways and caught Tooru red-handed. His mouth pulled into that grin again, that self-satisfied lopsided grin, now paired with a puckish gleam. Tooru hated him so much. 

“But what was that Shouyou,” Tooru glided his hand across that broad plane with his name, dusting off some imaginary lint, “you said something about your shoulders?” A smooth save, if Tooru ever knew one. He smirked. 

Shouyou sat back to toe off his shoes and rolled his eyes. “I strained my shoulders a bit during practice last week.”

Tooru hummed, slowly—and then Shouyou’s words registered. 

“You didn’t tell me.” 

Shouyou looked at him funny. “Because it was nothing?” 

“But if I knew I wouldn’t agree to sneak in here with you tonight, and—” No, that really wasn’t why Tooru felt kind of miffed right now, “—and you couldn’t have told me when we facetimed?”

“Because it was _nothing,”_ Shouyou laughed. “It pulled a little, felt a bit hot there after practice, and I went to my club’s therapist. That was it.”

“But still,” Tooru scowled. 

“Oikawa-san.” Shouyou put his hand on his arm, almost consolingly. “You know I wouldn’t let myself play around tonight if I thought it would be a risk.” 

Of course Tooru knew. He knew everything by heart: Shouyou’s shopping list for his strict diet, Shouyou’s free hours in his hermetic schedule, and Shouyou’s perfunctory weekend fuck with Tooru. Or with whoever the fuck, Tooru never asked. Hell. 

“Yeah, I know,” Tooru replied, a beat too late. He sighed into his hand—he really needed to get a grip, put a lid on his emotions. “No, ‘m sorry.”

Shouyou still had his hand on him, eyes down onto the space between them. His lips were curled into a furrow. “Should I tell you?”

“Huh?”

“Should I start telling you—stuff like this?” Shouyou briefly looked at him. “When we facetime.”

And—and that was _so_ embarrassing. They were not like _that._ They’d been doing this for a few years without a hitch; no demands and therefore no chores. Sure, sometimes they texted, or facetimed, but that was because of their shared mother tongue and nothing else. Tooru was grateful for the cloak of night they were under, at least the warmth he felt in his cheeks shouldn’t show too much in the dim moonlight.

“No,” Tooru bit out. “No that wouldn’t be necessary.” And he needed to save himself from this shameful lapse of emotions, so he slapped onward: “Do you want a shoulder massage?”

Shouyou blinked. “What?”

“A shoulder massage,” Tooru said, more surely this time. He straddled the bench between his legs, and he grabbed Shouyou’s elbow to turn him around. “I’ve just been taught a technique or two.”

“Should I be wary about this?” Tooru could hear a smile in his voice. 

“Nope, I learned from the best.” 

Instead of responding, Shouyou laughed and straightened his back for Tooru. The ripple of his muscles was almost seductive. 

Tooru had never really put his lesson into practice before, but he knew the basics: Thumbs on the outside of shoulders, pressed intermittently inwards, until they met at the spine; every rub came with Shouyou’s content sigh. Tooru repeated the motion a few times, and he was kneading through one particularly stubborn knot when Shouyou asked, “Did you learn this from Iwaizumi-san?” 

“No, why?” 

“Iwaizumi-san’s massages are the best,” Shouyou said, before the knot gave and he let out a muffled moan.

Tooru snickered. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but Mateo taught me this.”

Shouyou hummed, his tone ascending in question. 

“New physical therapist at my club.” A gentle squeeze on Shouyou’s neck, a hand on his forehead for support. “He just got hired last month to replace Lucia. That poor old Lucia.”

Shouyou hummed again. A beat, and then, “Your boyfriend?”

“No,” Tooru said, his hands slid against Shouyou’s clavicles, pushing the shoulders down, “Mateo has a wife.”

“Oikawa-san…” A dubious pause. “Should I put that past you?” 

Tooru smacked him on the back of his head, and Shouyou’s giggle chimed away, gleeful as the devil.

Long gone was the wiry Shouyou with starry eyes, staring up at him as they played on that beach in Rio. Those stars in his eyes were now twinkles of mischief; bright and zestful, staunchly pinned on Tooru as he pulled his winning decoys or flirtatious teases—depending on the setting—hounding Tooru’s every waking thought. 

Shouyou had always had a humongous presence—even when he was just a scrawny kid from a sleepy town, or a fumbling fledgling in a foreign land. Tooru was very aware of this. He’d just never thought that he’d let that presence seep through his own pith, growing roots, deeper and gnarlier as their visits were pared from every few months down to just a couple of weeks. As their texts were reared from occasional catch-ups into Tooru’s _good morning_ s and _good night_ s. The keyword being _Tooru’s_ , because one would sometimes question if Shouyou had a phone to his name _at all_.

And that. That was just simply unfair, upsetting, and too close to an old wound for Tooru’s comfort.

He’d sworn off this kind of troubling romance when he was twenty-three and heartsick from a bad break-up. But now he was thirty-three, and perhaps a little bit homesick for another presence to his side. And so Tooru asked, “And what about you?” Airily, casually, like an offhand remark, “Any boyfriend yet?”

Shouyou didn’t immediately answer. Tooru was about to yell— _Holy fuck, are you for real?—_ but Shouyou edged his voice out by flumping back, right into the nook of Tooru’s embrace.

Tooru didn’t know where to put his hands. They were still dangling in the air, paralysed by the sprawling Shouyou in his lap. If this was his hotel room, he’d wind his arms around Shouyou’s waist and pull him closer to his chest. But the last time they’d shown any intimacy beyond some greeting hugs—outside of the privacy of their own bedrooms—was Rio de Janeiro. 

Tooru gingerly put his hands on the side of Shouyou’s stomach. Loosely. 

“So,” Shouyou began. Tooru hoped Shouyou couldn’t hear the uptick of his pulse, even though he was draped right above it. “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s never good news,” Tooru said. Because Shouyou’s _I’ve been thinking’_ s could range from ‘ _I’m trying this new trick that would endanger any athlete less than capable than me’_ to _‘I’m visiting Buenos Aires next week, can I stay at your apartment for a week?’_

“It’s _kind of_ good news.”

“Oh?” 

Shouyou lolled his head backward, grinning his wide grin at Tooru. “I renewed my contract with ASAS. For another three years.” 

“Oh my god,” Tooru said. It was so easy to just lean in and plant a kiss there, right on his lips. It was an almost thing. Tooru should get an award for a solid case of self-control. “That’s _actually_ great news! Way to go, Shouyou.” 

“I know right,” he preened. “Now, as I said, I’ve been thinking.”

“Wait, that’s not the end?” And Shouyou mildly slapped Tooru’s hand, shutting him up. 

“I think, after this contract expires.” Shouyou looked down. He took hold of Tooru’s wrists, flapping the hands against his stomach. Shouyou was stalling. 

“After your contract expires…?” Tooru prompted. It was quite a novel experience, seeing Shouyou chewing at his lips with nerves like this, instead of the other way around.

“After my contract expires, regardless of whether I get to sign a new one again or not,” Shouyou continued, his voice tapering off, pitching lower as it went. “I think I’m staying here. For good.”

And suddenly Shouyou seemed so small in Tooru’s embrace; his presiding presence stripped into a frail, fearful thing as he stared into his own lap with great interest. Suddenly Shouyou was a much younger Tooru, twenty-four with a blank white form in front of him and a blue-inked pen in his hand; ‘POR NATURALIZACIÓN’ in all caps burned into his eyes.

“That’s a big decision to make,” Tooru finally replied. He pushed back the hair from Shouyou’s forehead, catching his eyes. “You sure? You still have three years.”

“It’s not like I’m changing citizenship— yet— I don’t know, but.” He sat up and turned around, latching onto Tooru’s hand like it was a lifeline, his knuckles white. “You know I’ve been living here, in Brazil, for nine years.” 

He really had. Where did the time go, marching so mercilessly? 

“Yes, you have,” Tooru calmly answered.

“I’ve made so many friends here: people from the beach, people from the Confederation, Romero, my teammates and rivals in Superliga,” Shouyou counted with his free hand, waved it towards Tooru when he added, “and even friends in Argentina I met through you.”

“That, you also have.”

“And of course there are other things too. All of the strongest players are here. My ex-students. And I just… like it here?” he finished, a bit defeated. 

“Yeah,” Tooru said, with more understanding than Shouyou could probably grasp. “You still have time to think it over though.” 

“No, that wasn’t what I’m trying to say.” A bit of frustration crept into Shouyou’s voice. He scooted closer and lifted his legs, bracketing Tooru inside them. Now that they were only inches apart, Tooru realised with a start that there was a warm flush rosing Shouyou’s cheeks. And _—fuck,_ that meant Shouyou _had_ seen him blushing earlier.

Shouyou, completely oblivious or just simply indifferent to the little crisis Tooru was in, continued. “It’s not like I need the courage to commit to it or anything, but Oikawa-san.” Shouyou glanced up at him, and Tooru might not be able to see the actual color on his cheeks, but he knew for a fact that it just grew redder than before. “I saw you settling yourself here, building a life from the ground up, and you _actually_ came out stronger and proud. And I think— I think that was just what I needed. To push me over the ledge.” 

Shouyou looked down again, his eyelashes glinted in the moonglow, the flush soaked even the tips of his ears—almost demure. “So what I’m trying to say is.” Shouyou cleared his throat. “Thank you. Oikawa-san. Is all.”

A heartbeat of silence sat heavy between them. But then Shouyou peered at him from between his lashes, and Tooru just _knew_ Shouyou was about to draw another one of his pretty smiles—crinkling eyes, glowing grin—and it was quite a pity that Tooru could not see it to its completion, because by the time Tooru realised what was happening, he already had his eyes closed, with his lips pressed against Shouyou’s.

He cradled Shouyou’s jaw, the skin warm against his—and he felt it first-hand when the jaw slackened as Shouyou’s lips melted apart; returning the kiss, sweet and welcoming. Every second felt like both forever and a mere flash.

It was the faint sigh that Shouyou exhaled a moment later, tickling the groove of his lips, that snapped Tooru back to attention. 

“Fuck,” he reeled back, his lips tingling still. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t—” 

“No,” Shouyou cut off. His fingers dug into the seams of Tooru’s shirt, holding him from pulling away. “Oikawa-san, again.”

“Again?” Tooru rasped. 

“Again,” Shouyou said firmly. And then he closed his eyes, an open invitation.

Tooru sat dumbstruck, feeling his mouth slightly agape, forming questions he didn’t dare voice. There were only the two of them in this empty stadium, but he’d never felt so exposed; the still air caressing his nape. Shouyou had not moved. 

Slowly, carefully, Tooru inched forward, watching his shadow shift across Shouyou’s face as he got closer. And then: a kiss, a chaste touch of their lips. A laughable quiver as they brush, though he wasn’t sure from whom it came.

When Tooru withdrew his lips, Shouyou still had not moved. But Tooru could see the stripes of his eyes, glittering and peeking underneath his eyelids. And then, Shouyou said: 

“Again.”

This time, Tooru took Shouyou’s lips between his own, just like how he’d been dying to do all evening. It was soft and supple, sliding slick as they started to move against each other, slow, smooth as silk. His skin felt too tight; his heart skipped like a rabbit, ready to escape the confines of his ribcage. 

There were a thousand emotions clogging up his throat, erupting in cracks and pops, and—they should stop. This was like none of the kisses they’d shared before. They had to _talk._ Tooru broke the kiss, and he pleaded, “Shouyou—” but Shouyou slid his hands to the back of Tooru’s neck—dragging fingernails across skin, waking goosebumps. Shouyou stared into him, eyes like he was about to pray on his knees. He said: 

“Again.”

Tooru was helpless. He pulled Shouyou by his jaw the same time Shouyou pushed him by his neck. It was not so much a kiss as a collision, a desperate licks of lips. Shouyou swept his tongue across the seam of Tooru’s lips, prying them open, and Tooru let him in, wet and writhing. It was as sloppy as it could get. Only little finesse was present as Shouyou let his fingers bite into Tooru’s hair, tilting his face, putting him completely at Shouyou’s mercy. Tooru didn’t dare to breathe; he knew if he let out so much of an exhale, it’d come out with a far too revealing shake.

However, this, as Tooru should’ve known if he'd had any cognisance left to his name, was _not_ how you kiss someone. 

It wasn’t even a minute until Tooru pushed back against Shouyou’s hand with a pathetic whimper. He surfaced from the kiss with a gasp, dying for breath like some kind of teenager. He was probably silly red in the face, because Shouyou, looking a bit stricken, stared at him wide-eyed—and immediately broke into a laughing fit.

“Shouyou,” Tooru pleaded, though this time with a much different tone than previous, a bit of a pant chafing his voice.

“Oikawa-san,” Shouyou replied, Tooru’s favorite smile wreathed on his face. Shouyou was kiss-bruised, his curls licking at odd places, all rucked up. Tooru guessed he wasn’t in a much better condition.

Tooru dipped in to kiss the corner of Shouyou’s lips. His sluggish brain reasoned it was to stop Shouyou from snickering at Tooru’s embarrassing display of kissing technique. But truly, it was because he now knew Shouyou would reciprocate in kind; small, light kisses, the ones that were all smacks and seemed to never end.

“Shouyou, Shouyou.” It was almost like a spell, the way that name tumbled down his lips. Testing the novelty of hearing it in the midst of fluttering kisses, without the bedroom walls closing in on them. 

“Oikawa-san,” Shouyou replied again, breathy with titters. But then he held Tooru still, cupping his jaw. “So I’ve been thinking.” 

“You’re _still_ thinking?” Tooru wheezed.

Another short chuckle, and Shouyou bit his lower lip, holding it down. His eyes were shimmering fever-bright, Tooru felt like sinking into them. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Shouyou repeated, stretching every word with heed. “Do you want to go out with me?”

“What?”

“I said do you want to—”

Tooru clapped his hand over Shouyou’s mouth. “ _No,_ I heard you the first time,” he said, his heart skittering in panic. It was as though a frigid wind just blew past him, whisking away the warm glow he just felt—whipping his hibernating fears into alertness. “Shouyou, what the fuck?” 

“Soddyouvvonttoho—” Shouyou said again, unperturbed by the palm muffling him.

“ _No,_ ” Tooru snapped.

Shouyou frowned, the upper part of his face looked confused—offended, even. He lowered Tooru’s hand with a bit of an effort, and then he argued, “I don’t think I’ve been taking this the wrong way, though?”

Tooru could not _believe_ how cocksure Shouyou sounded. “You were not, but Shouyou. Are you serious right now?”

“When have I ever _not been?”_ Shouyou still had the gall to look hurt.

A dull irritation spread within Tooru. They were definitely not on the same page here. 

“Shouyou, babe—” and that was a nickname that had only been spoken between the sheets, not out in the open like this, but hell if Tooru could care right now—”You can be a sweetheart. You really can. You were there whenever I was struggling with my career, or when I was trying to readapt after I moved for the second time. You even flew to San Juan when I just broke up with the person who I thought was the _love of my life_ to cheer me up.” Back then, Shouyou offered him a shoulder to lean on—and more. More than what was probably proper. It was definitely not Tooru’s proudest moment. Tooru searched Shouyou’s eyes, found nothing but patience, and it flared something sharp inside him. “But then— not long after that, you went back to Japan _without saying a word_ to me _._ Do you even remember that?” 

Tooru could see a flash of guilt on Shouyou’s face, and that was an amusing thing to know now; apparently Shouyou _could_ be self-aware. 

“You were there—” Tooru sucked in a breath, “and suddenly you _weren’t_ , whenever you don’t feel like it.” He sounded pained, more than he was actually willing to show. But it was too late, and the words that had been stuck on his chest were knocking out like a landslide: “You rarely text me back. You rarely call me first. You never tell me anything about your day, or what you do in your free time, or whatever. You meet me only when you’re _down to fuck—”_ and he wanted to _stop,_ he really did; his head dizzy from how needy this all sounded now that they hung in the air between them. 

“Oikawa-san.” 

“—and frankly I don’t understand what you actually _want_ from me! And—” 

“Oikawa-san.” Shouyou shifted closer, close enough until their bodies were flushed against each other. Couldn’t Shouyou see Tooru was _seething_ right now? Couldn’t he read the mood? Perhaps Shouyou just refused to, because he snaked his arms around Tooru like a girdle and did not let go.

“I’m sorry I’ve ever made you feel like this, but I want you to know,” Shouyou said, slow, as if he was talking a child through a playground scuffle. Tooru made an indignant noise, but Shouyou just grinned at him. “I want you to know, that I never really try to keep texting or calling for anyone much. Only you.”

“And?” Tooru grunted. That didn’t mean anything. That wasn’t supposed to change anything. But Lord, Tooru did _not_ know that. He felt like the earth was tilted off its axis, his brain trying to play catch-up with the sudden shift. Outwardly, he glared daggers.

“And Oikawa-san, I really, _really_ admire you. But— I still think you’re a handful.” Shouyou saw Tooru’s expression and barked a surprised laugh. “No, see, but the thing is— I think _I_ can handle _your_ handful. I want to make it _my_ handful.”

Tooru opened his mouth with protest, because how _dare_ Shouyou make this about _Tooru_ when they were talking about how _Shouyou_ is the asshole here, and—and Shouyou pecked him on the lips, effectively silencing him. Dirty cheater. Cheap trickster. Annoying bastard, his face lighting up with mirth, couldn’t he see Tooru was red in the face right now? With anger.

“I know I won’t be a perfect partner either,” Shouyou said, and Tooru let out the loudest scoff he’d given in his entire life. “I’ll try to be better, but you know whenever I don’t immediately get to you it’s probably because of volleyball, or my schedule. You _actually_ know this, because you’re the same. I love volleyball, and you love it as well.” 

Tooru didn’t respond. Because this was true, and he was too haughty to admit it out loud.

“I love volleyball,” Shouyou continued, “but— I also love you,”—Oikawa inhaled sharply; did his ears just fucking deceive him?—”and I _really_ want to make this work.”

Tooru remained silent. Shouyou stared at him, waiting. Tooru let the silence stretch for a few beats longer before he spoke up. “You’re done with your piece now?”

“Yep,” Shouyou grinned. It completely eluded Tooru why the hell would Shouyou seem so amused in this state they were in.

“Do you even realise what you’re saying?” Tooru fretted, desperate to knock some sense into Shouyou’s skull. Why, _why_ wouldn’t he understand? Shouyou raised an eyebrow in reply. Tooru sighed.

“Listen. You know we’re getting older—” Tooru said, and Shouyou was about to interject, probably with his usual _you aren’t old Oikawa-san, you’re just dramatic_ , but Tooru went on. “No, _listen to me._ I _am_ getting old, and I don’t sleep around as much as I used to. Haven’t been for the past year, for that matter.” Ever since he moved to Buenos Aires and their visits increased, to be exact. But he wasn’t about to tell Shouyou that. Realization dawned on Shouyou’s face anyway, and oh god, Tooru needed to finish this embarrassing talk _pronto._ "And— and if we’re going to do this then that's _it._ Do you get me?”

 _Now_ Shouyou looked confused. He cocked his head.

Tooru groaned. “Not even a few years and then our time on the court is finished, you know? _Poof._ Nothing. There’ll be no volleyball anymore, and then— and then there’ll be nothing else for me to latch on. There’ll be no one else I’d want to spend my days and nights with—after I retire.” His tongue felt clumsy, too thick and heavy. “And that’s it. Do you understand? If we’re going to do this, then you’re _it_ for me. There will be _no escape_ ,” he bellowed by the end. Finality in his voice. 

Shouyou gawked at him stupid, eyes wide and still. A beat of stunted silence—and he burst into _yet another laughing fit._ Tooru was about to lose his damn mind. Can Shouyou take this _seriously,_ for fuck’s sake.

“Oikawa-san,” he breathed, crisp and fond and chastising at the same time. “I think that’s the point of me asking you out, you know?” He stole a quick kiss from Tooru’s lips again. “I’m serious about wanting to try making this _—us—_ work.” And he ran the pad of his thumb on Tooru’s cheek, petal-soft reassurance as his eyes roamed about his face; searching, waiting. 

Tooru was—gobsmacked. Annoyed. Completely thwarted from his effort to look unaffected. 

Here Shouyou was, laying siege with his squared shoulders and outrageous selfishness. Here he was, with piercing resolve that shone through his eyes, the light that testified to how long he’d been thinking about this—probably longer than Tooru thought. And what could Tooru possibly do, bearing witness to such lurid confession, beside dumbly saying, “Oh.” 

“Is that ‘oh’ a yes?” Shouyou leaned forward, resting his head on Tooru’s collarbone.

“I love you,” Tooru announced instead of giving a proper answer, because he guessed what was another thing to embarrass himself on this trippingly enlightening night. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

Shouyou hummed and kissed the column of Tooru’s neck, the place he knew would make Tooru shiver in delight. He nipped his way upwards, catching Tooru’s lips for the nth time today and licked his way inside, unhurried. It was like a seal; a promise.

When Shouyou released his lips, Tooru had to rein himself from chasing the kiss. He had to cool it. Shouldn’t look that lame, at least. Shouyou nuzzled his cheek nonetheless. 

“Oikawa-san, remember when I said I’d like to think I can handle you just fine?”

Tooru grunted his affirmation. His lips felt too swollen from kisses. 

Shouyou tightened his hug, and he grinned—Tooru’s favorite, number one on the list—looking at Tooru with an unabashed glee. “I think _you_ are the only one who can handle _me.”_

“God,” Tooru said to the moon in the ceiling window. “First we need to glue your phone to your hand.” 

“But then how do I spike the ball?” Shouyou whined, burying his face deeper into Tooru. He was practically sitting on his lap now, all hard muscles curled up, his rare call to be hugged and spoiled.

Shouyou had wrung Tooru through a laundry list of terrible, embarrassing feelings in just one night, and here he was, no consideration for Tooru’s state of sanity. Tooru weakly cackled, wearied with fondness and perhaps anticipation. Perhaps this was just going to be his life now. 

He hugged Shouyou back, pressed a long, wet kiss to Shouyou’s temple, and then he said, “We’ll need to figure this out, huh?”

Shouyou craned his neck to look at him in mock innocence. “What, how to spike with a phone on my hand?”

He didn’t have anywhere to escape now as Tooru jabbed his side with a punishing poke, and Shouyou shrieked, squirming and laughing his way into another kiss. They couldn’t quite decide if they wanted to laugh or to kiss, but they managed to do both, somehow. In between the brushes of their smiles, Shouyou mumbled, with no less conviction than any of his decisions, “We’ll figure everything out.” 

  
  


—

  
  


Oikawa has to bend his knees a bit to toss the ball back into the air—it came a bit too low for his height; Hinata was too rash in his excitement when he passed the ball up to him. Even though this was their twentieth toss already—or somewhere around there. Oikawa has lost count. He flicks his wrist to compensate, slinging the ball to Shouyou’s-Vertical tall.

Hinata stomps against the floor with a loud squeak, and he takes his spiking stance mid-air—Age has made Oikawa’s eyes too discerning; too wide, too slack, too slow—and he grazes the ball by the tips of his fingers.

Hinata’s dejected groan reaches Oikawa even before he lands, followed by the sad thumps of the volleyball on the other side of the net. “Why is it getting _worse,_ ” he moans.

“That’s because I set it higher than before.” Oikawa takes another ball from the cart and swirls it between his hands. Thin sourness tapping his voice. 

“Why?” Ah, yes. Hinata Shouyou never complains, not really. He just demands an explanation.

“Because you can jump higher, obviously.”

“Then show me how!” 

Oikawa is eighteen years old, but he doesn’t really feel like it, not mentally. His joints and girdles are springy as rubber, but his limbs are heavy with years; he can still hear the well-worn creaks of his knees, the weary groan of his shoulders. He’s lived with them longer than he’s been eighteen. “I can’t,” he says. “Maybe later?”

“When the hell is later?” Hinata scowls.

Now, that’s a million-dollar question, isn’t it. Oikawa wants to answer, _sometime in the future,_ but even that feels disorienting. The rain has probably really gotten into his head, making it glide through the air while his feet remain aground. 

“Um,” Oikawa says. “You can try to— you know.” 

“Try what?” 

“Give the floor a stronger—” He wheels his hand, beckoning the word to come. “Un empujón?”

Hinata stares at him like he’s staring at a lost foreigner. Which—in all definitions but physical, he is. 

“You know,” Oikawa desperately says. “When your feet hit the floor— A _push._ Give the floor a stronger push.”

“I push the floor pretty strongly already, though?” Hinata pounds the floor with an experimental stomp, confusion growing between his eyebrows.

There’s a lot to say about that. Channeling the energy upwards, timing the elevation of the knees, all the cascades of a jump Shouyou had gesticulated to him and he had conveyed to his students in kind. But they are all scuttling inside his brain through a jumble of Spanish and Japanese and English and Portuguese, skittering against the fuzzy edges of an oncoming fever.

Oikawa grunts. Rubs down his face—his hand comes away a bit warmer. Hell. “I think I need a break.”

“What, _already?”_

Oikawa hisses and waves his hand, dismissing Hinata’s whinging complaints. There is no bench to sit on, but the floor is a place as good as any—his knees nearly buckle when he tries to sit, sliding down against the wall. 

Hinata collects the balls and throws them one by one back into the cart, muttering something about _should’ve gone longer_ or _what a waste._ He motions for Oikawa to pass him the ball he’s still holding, but Oikawa shoots it straight himself—perfect arc, and it hits the brim of the cart. The ball falls and wanders far to the corner of the gymnasium. Hinata glowers at him.

“Sorry,” Oikawa laughs dryly, and he slowly tucks his face into his hands. Hiding himself from this moment in time, just for a bit.

Now that he doesn’t need to move around, he can feel his breaths burning his airway; liquid flame that floats his head. He’s rarely gotten sick—the sensation feels foreign to him. He hasn’t _actually_ been sick, not since he started going out with Shouyou. An inevitable yet welcomed outcome, what with him pacing his life to Shouyou’s beats, healthy schedule and all.

Oikawa lets out a private scoff. People would think he’s the difficult one between the two of them, but really, Shouyou’s the one who drags him around—like a strong sea current, washing him away with his _plans_ , or _I’ve been thinking_ s, or whatever.

Eighteen years old Oikawa had plans too. Long, elaborate plans that landed him where he was: on top of a mountain of medals, and next to Shouyou.

His ‘plans’ had reached their finish line though. Been so for a few months. And—it wasn’t as terrifying as he thought, wasn’t as dark and cold without the stadium lights shining his path forward. It’d been a few months, and he’d started to sketch out his disfigured self back into _something—_ a coach, a teacher, a husband, a partner—there, not atop a mountain, but beside Shouyou still. He hasn’t finished drawing the new lines in his life—but he was on his way there. 

But perhaps God was in a funny mood. Or perhaps his life had been too smooth-sailing lately he needed to pay his comeuppance. He’d gotten thrown into the far-flung corner of time, eighteen years old with nary a plan. Oikawa curls into himself, taut and tight and closing into a dense ball. 

“Oikawa-san.” Hinata’s voice comes at him from too close a distance, Oikawa jerks open in surprise. Hinata peers at him, his head tilted. “You look all grey.” 

Oikawa swallows. His spit singes a trail down his throat. “Think I’m getting a fever.” 

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Hinata comments. He settles next to Oikawa with uncalled aplomb, “You should’ve come here when you’re healthy, Oikawa-san.”

“What, so I can toss for you more?” He slants Hinata a sneering look, but Hinata doesn’t see it; he’s too busy volleying a ball with the pads of his fingers, gaze upwards. 

“That, too, but,” Hinata says. One tap, two taps, the ball bouncing short. “I don’t want you to make an excuse that you were too sick to practice or anything when I eventually beat you—ah!” His fingers are too stiff, chucking the ball forward, out of his hands.

Oikawa stares at the ball as it dribbles away. “You _suck_ at that.” 

“I’m not a setter!” Hinata fumes, the tips of his ears flushing red again. “And I’ll get better at it, just you wait,” he says, as he gets up to retrieve the ball.

He really would, but Oikawa keeps that fact to himself. A feverish mist has somewhat fallen over his eyes, his sight hazy with it. Even Hinata’s back doesn’t seem solid anymore; it thaws into an impression of a much wider back, broad and sturdy and plucked right out of his own memory—the shoulders with “O I K A W A” stretched over a stolen old uniform, the shoulders that swing a spike not too wide, too slack, or too slow. Oikawa holds in a sob. He can’t remember the last time he felt this sick—this much longing. His head is light as air.

When Hinata comes back to him with the ball in his hands, he’s Hinata again. Small and lean and no plans after high school.

Not yet.

“You know,” Oikawa ventures. His words slur, dragged and smeared into indistinct murmurs. Hinata frowns and leans closer, listening in with effort. “When I was in high school I read this one book.”

“Aren’t you _still_ in high school, though?” 

“I can’t remember if it was good or not, I just forced myself to read it because the sci-fi magazine recommended it,” Oikawa continues, not minding Hinata. “It’s about a man who got transported back in time, to medieval England. It was a time-traveling book.” 

Whenever he and Shouyou had to pick the next series to watch for the weekend, Shouyou always complained, _Tooru, not sci-fi again._ He would say it without reproach, just like a ritual of _Tooru, not this again,_ or _Tooru, what is it now?_ Wrapped in so much fondness, they might as well have been love confessions. He misses Shouyou. Where was he again?

“It was during the reign of King Arthur—you know, the famous one. We watched a series about him once,” Oikawa says.

“What are you talking about?”

“Except— except the King Arthur in this book was apparently really stupid, he couldn’t govern his country at all. So the main character helped King Arthur out, advising him with the knowledge he brought from the future. He led the King to his glory.” A spike that is not too wide, too slack, or too slow; all the cascades of a jump that Shouyou had taught him. “But you’re not King Arthur.”

Hinata gives him a narrow look, looking stumped more than anything. “I don’t really understand,” says Hinata. “Are you complimenting me?” 

Oikawa huffs a chuckle. “Yeah. Yeah, I am,” he says. “What I’m saying is— you don’t need anyone’s help. You’ll bring yourself to glory all by yourself.” 

_And that’d be one of many, many reasons why I love you,_ Oikawa doesn’t say. 

“Thank you…?” Hinata’s tone sways up by the end of his sentence. He’s crossing his arms with his head cocked sideways. “You sound weirdly sure about this.”

“I am,” Oikawa says, with more understanding than Hinata can probably grasp—for now.

“Are you an ESP or something? You have a third eye open!?” 

Hinata isn’t mocking, he’s _genuinely_ curious. Oikawa wants to laugh; the question sounds like a déjà vu. He vaguely remembers hearing something similar— _Oikawa-san! Do you have eyes in the back of your head!?_ —a lifetime ago or a lifetime from now. 

Oikawa reaches up and flicks Hinata’s forehead. His fingers feel detached from his whole body, he misses the centre of his forehead by a few centimetres. “You’re still young,” he says. “Just play volleyball however you want. You’ll get there eventually.” 

Hinata’s face scrunches inwards. “Oikawa-san. You’re only two years older than me.”

This time, Oikawa actually laughs. “I guess I am, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t know you’re this weird, Oikawa-san,” Hinata says, but his voice comes and goes in waves, lapping the edge of Oikawa’s consciousness. 

He needs to go home.

Oikawa braces his arm against the wall, scraping for leverage to stand up. Hinata seems to pick up on his struggle and actually scrambles to help, holding Oikawa’s other hand. When their skin touches, he says, “Whoa.”

The gymnasium swims around in his vision, round and round, their joined hands the eye of the storm. “Huh?” Oikawa says. 

“You’re really warm,” Hinata observes. 

“Can I hug you?” Oikawa asks.

“What?” Hinata asks back, head snapping up to see Oikawa’s face. His eyebrows jump up, approaching his hairline— _my hairline isn’t receding Tooru, and neither is yours_ —his hair is longer than he’s ever worn it throughout their relationship, his eyebrows hide behind his bangs. Small and lean and no plans after high school, but his hair—garish orange and wild curls. His frowns—bunched eyebrows and furrowed lips. His eyes—wide and bright and Oikawa feels like sinking into them. Perhaps he can. Hinata’s eyes are getting bigger and bigger and Oikawa can jump into them anytime, like the public pool behind their apartment, with its sun-drenched water during summer.

“Whoa, whoa,” Hinata says, almost losing his balance as Oikawa finally flumps into him, head right into the narrow space between his neck and his shoulder. He can’t see Hinata’s eyes anymore. “Let’s sit back down for now,” he suggests. 

Slowly, Hinata bends his knees to the floor, propping Oikawa with him, one by one; left, to Oikawa’s right, right, to Oikawa’s left. And they stand there on their knees, a stupid sight with Oikawa’s much larger frame curving over him like a bow—his face not moving from where it landed.

“Oikawa-san, do you need me to call someone?” The vibration from Hinata’s throat, right next to Oikawa’s ear, says.

 _Shouyou rarely answers calls,_ Oikawa almost replies, but then he feels something on the back of his head, sending a shiver down his spine—he knows this touch.

“What are you doing?” he asks, but it comes out a soft rasp. 

“Oh, this.” Hinata sounds nervous, and the brush of something on Oikawa’s hair stops. “Sorry I— I always do this for Natsu. My sister. Whenever she’s about to cry. It’s a reflex.”

Oikawa huffs—he meant it as a laugh, but the heat keeps his voice at bay. It’s a laugh—at the situation, at Hinata Shouyou, at everything that has and hasn’t changed, and some things that never change. Hinata’s hoodie is wet, right where Oikawa puts his eyes. “You can keep going,” Oikawa whispers.

A couple of seconds of nothing—hesitation in the jaggy swing of a shoulder, right where Oikawa puts his cheek—and Hinata brings his hand back to the straggle of Oikawa’s hair—carding his fingers through it, patting it down, as if Oikawa is a kid with a skinned knee ready for bedtime.

Perhaps he is.

He is eighteen, his body feels like a raw, opened welt, and the main character in that novel went back to his time by sleeping through the three-thousand years of history. 

“You want to sleep?” Hinata says.

Oikawa nods. He only needs to sleep for eighteen years though.

“Eighteen years is so specific,” Hinata laughs. He carries himself down, dragging their bodies closer to the wall, and he carefully heaves Oikawa’s head away from him. The world is blurry, melted around the edges, like he’s weeping—perhaps he is—and then it careens sideways as Hinata places his head on his lap. And then it’s back—the tender caress of his hand, tangling Oikawa’s hair and brushing it straight.

“Can you sleep like this?” Hinata’s voice laps the shore, light and translucent like the sea-foam. Disappearing back into the ocean.

“What if—” Oikawa mumbles. “What if I wake up and you aren’t here?” _Or worse,_ Oikawa doesn’t say, _what if I wake up and we are still here?_

“I won’t leave you,” Hinata says. _And neither will I leave you,_ Shouyou had said. 

Oikawa can’t see Hinata. The stadium light—the gymnasium light illuminates from above, plastering shadows where his face is. But Oikawa can see the lines that make his shapes; small and lean. Broad and sturdy. 

He doesn’t know what lines define himself outside of the court, but Shouyou—he knows Hinata Shouyou. Even without the open blue sky, or the lines of a volleyball net. 

Oikawa laughs; a weak, wet one. His breaths come in short huffs, quick and torrid. 

“Oikawa-san,” Hinata says, “breathe.” 

He and Shouyou talked a lot, on every sleepless night after he announced his retirement. Soft whispers of reassurance, of worries and plans. Of how to sleep. _Try to count your breaths, and you’ll sleep in no time._ Hinata Shouyou gently stroked his hair. _Deep inhale, hold it in for seven seconds, and exhale,_ he had guided him, a hand a soothing weight on his chest. Rose with his inhale, sunk with his exhale. Like waves.

Deep inhale. 

Hold it in for seven seconds. 

Slowly exhale. 

Deep inhale. 

Hold it in for seven seconds. 

And exhale like— 

— 

  
  


###  **2016**

It was above the rhythmic lull of the ocean waves, crashing the sand blue and leaving in a hurry, that Oikawa Tooru heard the loud yell, “Nice kill!” The consonants pointed, the ending rolled into a longer syllable that still lingered close in his own tongue— _naiskiru!_

“You have to be kidding me,” he said. “How is this even a thing?” 

The shock of orange hair twisted around, facing him, broader and sturdier and more settled than he’d ever remembered him to be.

“Oikawa-san!?” Hinata Shouyou shouted. His voice carried across the span of sand, reaching him, and it rode the offshore breeze, sweeping through the frolicking players, swooping down the volleyball net, and It traveled to the vast expanse of the ocean, carrying names and memories and plans, far, far into the future.

  
  
  
  


— 

  
  
  


Hinata Tooru wakes up to the roaring of Shouyou’s blender and the sight of the blue sky ceiling. The white walls are yellow from the sunrise, and dust motes swirl and spin in its light, settling like a content sigh on Tooru’s skin.

Tooru closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The waft of green tea and the humid air enter his lungs. He holds it in for seven seconds, and he exhales; slowly, slowly. His cheeks are stretched out, his lips spreading; he’s smiling. This is his morning. He’s home. 

The relief swamps over him in torrents, Tooru almost cries from it. 

When he slides over to the other side of the bed, he can feel the afterimage of body warmth on the sheet, tingling his skin. Shouyou. Shouyou was just here. He breathes the warmth deep into his chest, hugging the bed and the familiar bedsheet and the heat of another person in his morning. Reveling in the traces Shouyou left for him.

As if summoned, Tooru hears the soft tip-tap of footsteps approaching his bed, right from the outside of the bedroom door. He can feel his smile widen. He doesn’t want to open his eyes just yet. Not long, he can feel a depression on one corner of the bed, jostling his body a bit, and then it inches closer and closer until Tooru can feel a body hovering above him. 

“Tooru,” Shouyou says, his voice bright, and real. “I know you’re awake.”

Here, Tooru smirks. “What gave it away? Is it my handsome smile?” 

Shouyou plants a kiss on his temple. “You have work in an hour.”

“Babe, that’s _really_ not the nice morning greeting you think it is,” Oikawa frowns, finally opening his eyes. 

Shouyou is smiling above him; the morning light caresseses the taper of his nose and his cheeks, crowning him in gold, with the ceiling coloring his backdrop. This is Tooru's usual morning—and this time Tooru feels _truly_ home. Emotions swell from the tip of his toes, up above the top of his head, enveloping him in the gentle glow of comfort. He’s home. He’s actually home.

“I’ve been done being nice to you for years. Come on, up, up,” Shouyou says, punctuating his command with a gentle tap on Tooru’s cheek each. 

Tooru hums and catches Shouyou’s hand. He pushes him sideways, rolling them over until he can tuck Shouyou into a tight hug above the blanket. Shouyou’s short hair tickles his chin, and he can’t help but to press his lips against it, inhaling the familiar smell.

“What’s this?” Shouyou asks, amused. 

“Shouyou, I love you.”

Shouyou laughs, crisp and clear. He untangles himself from Tooru’s arms and pushes himself upwards, so he’s at eye level with Tooru. “Did you have a nightmare?” he asks.

“I can’t say I love you first thing in the morning without having a nightmare first?” Tooru says, mock affronted.

“Well, I love you too,” Shouyou grins. Tooru’s favorite grin, number one on the list. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and Tooru can see the faint creases appearing there; crow’s feet. 

The little Shouyou he just met—in a dream, in that plane of existence, in that timeline—had smooth skin and bright, unblemished eyes. The kinds that haven’t seen anything past school buildings and his house’s backyard. But this Shouyou—hard muscles and tranquil eyes and all the lines in his laughs and his frowns—Tooru has known this Shouyou for half of his life. And Tooru will spend the rest of it with him.

That thought brings hitches to Tooru’s breath. And so he calls, "Shouyou." And then he says, all choked up, “I’m glad I met you.” In that stale high school gymnasium in Sendai, by the vast blue ocean of Rio, and at any orange court somewhere in the world; not one encounter was more fateful than the other. They were two bodies that floated about the ocean, fighting against the currents, flittering around each other like two buoys tethered to opposing tides. But none of that matters now; all those long, long years of the ocean. Because now the two of them have come ashore, lauded and battered, and they chose to stay aground, here, _together,_ he and Shouyou. There is no possible way to weave all of this into a neat string of words, so Tooru says, earnestly from deep within his chest, “I really, really am.” 

Shouyou brushes his bangs up, seeking a clearer view of Tooru’s face. “Why are you crying?” he asks, gleeful.

There’s a sheen of tears on his eyes, and Tooru tries to glare as balefully as possible through it. Shouyou only chuckles, and then he kisses his tears away, right on the dim line under Tooru’s eyes, a suggestion of where gravity would pull his skin down in ten-years time. 

“Why are you crying?” Shouyou asks again, fondly.

Tooru doesn’t answer, but he stretches his arms open, as wide as he can with the bed lying underneath them. “Hug me?”

Shouyou doesn’t answer, but he stretches his arms just as wide, and he welcomes Tooru in a warm, all-encompassing hug. Guiding Tooru’s face to its home; on the crook of Shouyou’s neck, with Shouyou’s hand combing through his hair. 

Tooru thinks, perhaps his definition of self can never be separated from his definition of home, for he and Shouyou’s home is, or was, the court, first and foremost. But now, as he removes himself from those lines of the net and lines on the court, perhaps what defines him are these: the walls that make the interiors of their house, the color of their ceilings, the width of their couch. 

Or perhaps: it is not so much the upholsteries than it is the companion; perhaps one morning he and Shouyou will wake up and decide that they’ll uproot themselves and travel the world, sowing homes wherever they pass through, together. 

Or perhaps: he’ll never get the court back. Perhaps he’s been chasing after his ambition to the point of no return; it has defined him as a person, and it is now too late: he’ll be forever accursed of not knowing who he really is without. 

But if that last theory is true, then what matters is this: he knows he can always whine his way into Shouyou’s embrace, curling himself there, breathing into the space between Shouyou’s neck and shoulder. And then Shouyou will tell him, through gentle whispers, who Tooru is; the lines in his laughs and his frowns that make him a person. And Tooru knows that he will do the same for Shouyou, one day, when the time comes. 

They will figure it out, when the time comes.

But for now, Tooru wraps his arms around Shouyou on this bed, slotting themselves like a dovetail, two puzzle pieces cut to fit each other. Shouyou lets out a soft exhale, content and loving, before he hugs Tooru tighter. 

And there, right at that moment, Tooru knows he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa and Iwaizumi dated for a little more than a year; they got together shortly after Oikawa met Hinata in Brazil in 2016. By the time their first Olympics rolled around in 2021, they were already on friendly terms again.
> 
> Shouyou and Tooru slept with each other whenever they had the chance, but they only started exclusively sleeping with each other (without each other knowing) from mid 2025, after Tooru moved to Buenos Aires. As has been chronicled in this fic, albeit in reverse order: They officially got together in 2027, and Shouyou proposed in 2028. Their wedding was right after the 2029 Olympics. It is now 2030. Tooru is 36, and Shouyou is 34. They are planning to adopt a dog soon, and then, only perhaps, a little later in their life, a child. Shouyou is considering changing his citizenship, but he wants to see if he can push himself for the 2033 Olympics first. 
> 
> Shouyou’s little secret is that he had a little crush on Tooru in his freshman year.
> 
> The sentence that Shouyou recite whenever Tooru needs reassurance, the one that Tooru holds close to his heart, is this: "You’ve done enough, you’ve left the court, but it’s not like volleyball left you, and neither will I leave you."
> 
> BIG thank you for [Maren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomturkey/pseuds/boomturkey) for beta-ing this beast that I said to her was only going to be "a coupla thousand words"
> 
> Kudos are very appreciated, and comments make my day better <3
> 
> Come talk to me or share the fic on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mortalatte/status/1341104368389656578)!


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